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I
have
always been curious about the little things, hidden things, discarded things. Captured in passing storms, landing
all around me,
moths blew into my life. These “wandering death-birds”, “souls of witches”, are
creatures of myth and magic. Now, I pleasure myself in reproducing their
feathering wing patterns. Layering iridescent inks on smooth clay boards, I
scratch & dent at the surface with an xacto knife, pens, and pencils
revealing their enigmatic markings.
I am exploring the shadows
of death and reincarnations
– the poems, songs, and praises that are the spirit of moths’ myths.
Louise
Schlachter
Born Brooklyn, New York
works and resides Mother
Dog Studios, Houston, TX
Making unseen subterranean archives spew Color Webs. Ambiguous
Ovidian. Polyphonic Ovidian. The untouched psychological lake of the page is as critical as the shapes and forms of herself.
Emotional re-marks swirl and twirl. The surrealists call my process automatic drawing. Small tight scribbles with subliminal
sounds. Strokes. Strike. Stimulating. Irritating. Colored pencils glide: itch & scratch past years. Denial. Diagramming
senses my own language jots and tittles. Max’s wife Dorothea said “I sit and wait with spiders patience for winged
bits of affection to crash into my web where I immediately swallow them always still hungry.” Long curves streaming
suggestions of waving arms. Now, hair flying in the warehouse whirled wind. Impulses. Persist in paradise. And hell. Instincts
survive.
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