Posts By Kasia Ozga

Week 182 – March 5 to March 12

Manuela Morgaine

Sanctuaire – Place du Trocadéro, Paris, 1er Mars 2024. Diaporama & Musique 3’12- Le chant des Partisans chanté par Yaël Naïm.

Emma Woffenden

Play-Fight series. Drawing, ink, pen, water colour.

Valeria Troubina

Forest Ferries, 200cm x 150cm oil on canvas, 2003

Kasia Ozga

Myco Camo Ammo, Digital Photograph, 2024.

Found texture, Knight Brown Nature Preserve, Rockingham County, NC.

Week 172 December 20 to December 27

Kasia Ozga

Santa, Greensboro, NC, USA, 2023.

Valeria Troubina

Winter flowers of my dreams, watercolour, 42cm x 29.5 cm, 2023

Katja Stuke

Cars, Ivry 2023

Week 164 – Oct 24 to Oct 31, 2023

Liza Dimbleby

Rolls of drawings, thirty years old, from an attic, boxed and photographed on my 55th birthday, September 2023

Letter from Glasgow: The Forgotten Music

I think about it inside me, biding its time, resisting my call for it — this song that so delighted me, that returned to me twice, unbidden, yesterday, and then went on its way, went back inside me, perhaps never to return. When it was there I wanted to carry it, be carried by it. I did not think of recording the notes, making a digital imprint by which to catch and hold it. I thought that it was a part of me, that it would last forever. Now I’m waiting, wondering where within me it is hiding. 

Click here to read more 

Kyung-hwa Choi-ahoi

Diary Drawing No. 8606, December 8th, 2022. Size: 21 x 29,7 cm, oil and lacquer on paper.

Sudha Padmaja Francis

My niece Neelanjana and her freshly coloured hair, June 2023

Just a few days ago I scribbled:

I  had to put my hands,

into so many unknown tree-holes all through 

this journey.

Tree-holes may be filled with a variety of things:

sticky toffee, 

used hair band, 

ants dividing sugar dutifully amongst themselves,

note that never reached its destination,

squirrel hiding from its companion 

to savour the mango on her own,

a single slipper,

a single earring..

This sense of loss keeps happening like waves of the sea. There are some days when I wake up that I do not want to wake up and would rather remain in the dream that I was dreaming. More than the dream, I wake up with a Malayalam film song in my head which occupies and populates my inner being for a week; I never want to lose that loop.

Natacha Nisic

Met en place les conditions d’une expérimentation
Nous sommes plongés dans la brume.
Nos corps, nos affects se délivrent.

Sets the conditions for experimentation
We are immersed in mist.
Our bodies, our affects are released.

Kasia Ozga

Wear Out: Manual Labor, Digital Photograph, Art in Odd Places, New York City, 2023.

Flags blowing in the wind sewn out of used textiles. Bright and faded and worn and starched work wear, a ubiquitous identifier of blue collar histoire ouvrière en France. Blue collar clad hipsters rocking the moral authority of manual labor in Brooklyn. The sound of street level flags rustling in the the wind and billowed out towards pedestrians on creaking temporary flagpoles. Foisted up near current and former headquarters of labor unions on 14th street (the Italian Labor Center, DC 9, and the International Brotherhood of Teamsters), we ask what is the place of labor in the contemporary metropolis? Who decides what we make and how?

Maithili Bavkar

Body, 2023.

Neringa Naujokaite

7/10, 2023.

Week 149 – May 23 to May 30

Kyung-hwa Choi-ahoi

Diary Drawing _ No. 8479_ May 2th, 2022
Diary Drawing _ No. 8479_ May 2th, 2022, Size: 21 x 29,7cm, oil on paper.

When a first day of the week comes: 
A headscarf will give birth to an anaconda whose name is Monday. She will bring woman and freedom”

Manuela Morgaine

GHOSTING – I met a Ghost, I’m still haunted by the Ghost.

The practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.

A form of psychological violence that consists of disappearing overnight, ignoring someone, not responding, without giving any explanation.

Kasia Ozga

Green Graffiti, Ohio, May 2023.

I am obsessed with the texture of tree bark in the wild. Nooks, crags, and crannies constantly beckon the lens of my camera as I lag behind my family of hikers, documenting every strange shape that catches my eye. I am fascinated by the impulse to mark-making on a living thing. Yesterday, I came upon row upon row of vandalized trees in a State Forest.

The idea of tattooing a person against their will evokes images of slavery and genocide but maybe my metaphor means I am too shocked-sensitive to violence. The ritual scarification of nature is benign for many people. Cutting through cork is a form of proof: a testament of love from Robin Hood to Maid Marian, a memory engraved in a blackboard that will outgrow your body, a permanent way to state ‘I was here.”

Liza Dimbleby

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is 005F55DD-974A-4401-A934-2239CCF7BD63_1_105_c-1024x718.jpeg
Totem and Taboo (II), paint on paper, May 2023

Letter from Glasgow: Written on birch

Birch trees seem to like railways, you travel through them as you enter Glasgow, and Berlin and then east to Moscow and Siberia. An endless shuttering of birch trunks through the train window, their verticals marking the space. It isn’t monotonous, it is even reassuring. They accompany my journeys, anticipated and remembered. I look them in the eye.

Recently these tree trunks have begun to people my paintings and drawing. They sit about a dining table. A felled tree between them like a family secret, or a dead man laid out. What do they do with something that is part of them?

Click here to read more

Anne Dubos

« Ma main sur ton dos », Benoît Travers pour ‘Les Archives du Care », Studio Woffenden-Boontje, Bourg Argental, Mai 2023.

Week 148 – May 16 to May 23

Katja Stuke

Sans Titre, Collage pour une vidéo sur le Métavers, 2023

Anne Dubos

‘A gesture of Love from A. to B.’, The Archives of Care.

Manuela Morgaine

How long? dawn thoughts, May 15.

Anne Brunswic

View from Darwin cemetery, Falklands/Malvinas, dec 2018.

Retour sur le cimetière de Darwin

Les disparus 1.

Ma chronique du 25 octobre 2022 (Crown Letter week 120) revient sur une visite au cimetière de Darwin en décembre 2018. « Argentinian cemetary / Cementero argentino », indiquait le petit panneau à l’entrée de la piste cailloutée mais aucun drapeau argentin ne flottait sur le quadrillage de croix blanches dominant le vallon de Darwin. Une centaine de tombes anonymes portaient alors l’épitaphe “Soldado argentino solo conocido por Dios“. L’armée argentine avait abandonné à l’ennemi la charge d’inhumer ses morts. Deux fois abandonnés. Deux fois trahis. Ils reposaient dans une steppe glaciale balayée par un vent féroce. Faute de normalisation des relations entre les deux pays, les premières visites venaient seulement d’être autorisées, trente-six ans après la fin de la guerre. Les fleurs et les rosaires en plastique que je photographiais étaient tout neufs.  L’épitaphe avait quelque chose d’une prière. Comment ne pas en appeler à la grâce du Seigneur ?

Click here to read more

Liza Dimbleby

Totem and Taboo, Paint and pencil on paper, May 2023

Letter from Glasgow: A bed of lichen, a table of moss.

It’s going to be a Bibiliotheque Imaginaire, she writes, an imaginary library, to wear on her head. Can you send me the title of a book, real or imagined? The first thing that surfaces is moss. My book would be a bed of moss, but I need another syllable. A mattress of moss? No, a mattress feels too awkward and practical, a table then. She likes it. A Table of Moss and Other Stories? Yes, it might include Un Lit de Lichen, I text back.. Something solid and permanent like moss, or lichen. But my predictive text wants to write libido, not lichen. Although it is true my devotion to lichen might have something libidinous in it. And I have long dreamed of beds of lichen and moss, and sometimes trees are asleep in these beds.

As I was day-dreaming titles I had not been thinking of the camps or of the actual, not mossy, but decidedly urban mattresses that are left behind after each clearance, the one thing that people cannot run away with. The mattresses are always the first things to be brought, dragged over pavements, and the things that remain after everyone has been moved on. The beds of moss, or lichen, indicate a world where it is safe to lie down anywhere, where nobody claims possession of the territory and where you can gently dream. A sort of permanence, old as lichen, as libido.

Click here to read more

Kasia Ozga

Barbe Espagnol (Spanish Moss), Digital Photograph, Lafayette, Louisiana, May 2023.

I flew South like a migrating bird, towards the Atlantic Ocean and the petrochemical plants. Between the storied buildings of academia and the strip malls of urban sprawl, there was a carefully curated swamp, complete with do-not-feed alligators and roving turtles.

Click here to read more