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Exhibion The Black Sea Alway Turn Red
By Marth von Loeben

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In, out.

In again,

pass through, out.

In, -take a red bead-,

pass the needle

through, and out.

In on one side,

out from the other.

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I love the place where I’m sitting.

A comfortable armchair at my sewing desk, surrounded by an abundant amount of crafting supplies and piles and piles of bones and wounds made of string and glass beads.

I sew for hours, at night, to keep the memories at bay.

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A small light, a glass of wine and the smell of the sea all help me get through the evenings.

The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks crawls inside the room from the open window to my left; a soothing, yet unnerving sound. Its constant motion is a rhythmic companion, but at night -in the silenceit becomes a deafening reminder of its unrelenting

existence.

It will never leave me alone.

Although I have always been grateful for its presence throughout my life, lately, it has started to haunt me. The waves bring back ancient memories with them; things

locked away in the back of my brain a long time ago.

My vision is filled with the red hue of the wounds I’m sewing: the glass beads become droplets of blood in the corner of my eye.

I lift my head from my work to look at the Black Sea and there it is: red. No matter how many times I close and open my eyes again, the sea is always red.

I’ll go back to my work. At some point, maybe, the water will be clear again.

March 2019