womens beyond border logo

BOXES beyond borders

Category: Death

An Old Song

Recently, a collection of my poetry entitled, Common Ancestry was published by Mille Grazie Press. The title of the poem and several others, including An Old Song, were written remembering my grandmother, Curruth Drummond Kincaid. Her picture as a young woman graces the cover of the book. All that I do- from poetry to politics- has its genesis in my grandmother’s life. She always spoke of the influences of her grandmother, Chestine Foster, and her aunt, Ada Foster. I was her firstborn grandchild and went to live with her in Marion, North Carolina, just before my 5th birthday in 1948. She died in 1997 at the age of 97. Here I have used her picture taken at age 94. The picture of me, circa age 45, was taken by my friend, Specs Powell.

This box is covered with purple star-studded paper which wrapped a book I received as a thank-you gift from a teacher and friend, Marianne Rossant. The book was her mother’s memoir of growing up in Egypt and in France, the birthplaces of her parents. My friend, Margaret Matson, instructed me in the art of paper maché. The poem is printed on a computer scanned version of the wrapping paper. The star on top of the box, part of a gift from my friend, Abigail Albrecht, symbolizes my namesake, Sojourner Truth, whose dying words were, “I’m going home like a shooting star”.

Thanks for the help to Rod Rolle, Margaret Matson, and Tom Long.

AN OLD SONG
Sojourner Kincaid Rolle

I have no new voice
it is the same old voice
the voice of my mother
calling
for her daughter
captive of Kaleidoscopic mirrors
the voice of her mother crying
for her daughters
lost
in the mill village
singing for the hill pople
dancing for nickels

Old as the voice of her
mother screaming for
daughters taller than
herself   tall as the
Carolina pines   taller
than her predators
tall enough to speak
above heads of
inferiors   old as
the voice of her mother
singing from the deep
recesses of her humming
heart   deep where
the memory began
to be played over
for the forgetting

War Box

Since time began, mothers have nurtured, loved, taught, protected, cherished and raised their babies, then watched them grow to be killed in war or by war. This inevitable cycle will repeat itself for untold generations unless our mothers’ universal plea to Stop The Killing results in WAR NO MORE!

In Memoriam

For many years, Guatemala has seen itself drained of its blood.  The survivors of the war have become like witnesses who will be able to tell the different violence-ridden anecdotes and facts so that such events may never return to repeat themselves.  And the dead, as silent witnesses who will attest to the importance of regenerating the earth and hope.  With their ashes they will free our memory.

Specifically, in this little box, I have deposited the ashes of a dear Mexican friend who, with passion and solidarity, lives with us the repressive and depressing situation of the early nineties in our  country.

In thinking about the dead that the war left behind, and the friend who shared the hope and hopelessness of the Guatemalan creators, this box comes to be a metaphor of all those situations where tenderness and pain appear with the same intensity.

 

The Mummified Stone Heart

The central focus is a very special stone heart found on the Pacific coast at the equator. It has an uncommon green color. a heart with many scars. Once it was split, but love was able to hold it together and unify what had been separated.

Sorrow leaves wounds; joy brings peace.
This heart has found its peace.
Its wounds have healed.
The purpose of life was fulfilled; the eternal cycle of birth to life and death to a new life.
This heart has been embalmed; first if has been cleaned from all perishables.
The nucleus remained, one with the nature.
For women all over the world and over all times it might be a symbol for love;
isn’t the woman love’s keeper?
Love is immortal.
Faith and hope in the victory of love might be the symbol of humankind in the next millennium.

NOTE: This embalmed heart has been wrapped with golden ribbons, placed on a plate of slate from the Andes, and bedded in a stone sarcophagus.  The feather of a white swan symbolizes the purity of the heart.  As grave goods, there are two sealed papyrus rolls perpetuating the heart’s qualities. This project contains symbols from four different continents (America, Asia, Europe, Africa).

Cancer

In the past
people asked me
sometimes
what is your sign
and I said
cancer
because I was born
on the 6th of July.

Now I got the disease
or the disease got me
and I hate
this word:
cancer.

I lost my hair
I lost my breast
and I may lose
my life-
who knows-to
cancer.

But I am not alone
185,000 women a year
are getting it and
we are all asking why
cancer

Why all the poison
in our food, our water,
our air, what did we
do to nature, where
is the F.D.A.? It is not
only tobacco which is
killing us.  How can we
fight the enemy
cancer?

 

The Wells of the Virgins

The mysteries of Eleusis, is the theme I have been working on since 1992.  It is about a long research I have been doing on forgotten rites and their symbolism.  An endeavor based on the writings of ancients and also of contemporaries on Greek art. The fertility of the earth-womb and children’s tomb symbolized by the well, which encloses the water of life, the water that purifies, but also fecunds, is inseparable from the earth.  The archetypal image of the mother/daughter, Demeter and Persephone as identical characters.  As well as Persephone’s ravishment by Hades, refers to the sexual act and to marriage.  Finally, its descent and raising represent death and resurrection.  Always assumed, the unknown rites have to be imagined…

Ambient Light

Tajima Box Project. An artist and an extraordinary woman collaborate to create a box.

Amy Reisenbach, DIRECTOR OF CURRENT PROGRAMMING FOR CBS PARAMOUNT TELEVISION and Sukey Bryan, ARTIST

When Amy and I talked on the phone, I was very moved by her embrace of the people around her, her enjoyment of her work, and pleasure she gets from being in nature. A significant experience that we hold in common is that we have both lived through the death of members of our immediate families. Several times she said, “Don’t take things for granted”.

I covered the entire box with an image of water, an ever-changing and unpredictable source of life — as a metaphor of awareness and appreciation of the life and lives that surrounds us. The inside of the box and the inside of the lid are gold like the constant inner self that reflects light.

 

Separation

Vietnamese / American Boxes

April 1975, Vietnam: Everyone knows the communists will over run Saigon, but no one expected it to happen so fast. Over the last month the sound of gunfire and explosions have slowly increased in frequency and force. We are so used to it that it has become a sort of background noise no one pays any attention to. Despite this I remember waking on April 30th, alarmed at how close the sound of gun-fire and explosions was to our neighborhood. The city was in chaos, dark smoke blanketed the horizon as people ran with whatever belonging they could carry. But as I watched it seemed that very few had any idea of where to go.

My family and I hurriedly packed some clothes and fled to a friends house in another part of the city called Cho-Lon which was safer. We could no longer stay in our home because it was near an army camp and therefore dangerous. My father was not with us because he and my mother had separated years earlier. Adding to our anxiety was a rumor that the communists have threatened to flatten Saigon if there is resistance. By noon the presidential palace had fallen and we knew it was all over. I was only 7 years old at the time and did not realize how bad the situation was, so I innocently told my mom that now Vietnam will be one country again so she can go back to North Vietnam to see grandmother. My mom was delighted with the thought.

Later that afternoon we drove to the harbor to see what was going on since the radio station had been captured by the communist and we no longer were getting any news. As we drove around the streets were now completely deserted and an strange silence had fallen on the city. The only people we saw were a few people left still burning records and documents in front of some government and military installations. More ominous was the fact that in the harbor most of the navy and merchant ships had already left. I asked my mom what was going on but she seemed lost in her thoughts, maybe she was thinking of the harsh choice she would soon have to make.

My uncle and his wife had been staying one step ahead of the communists since they fled the central highlands. Because of the speed of the communist advance, the roads were jammed with refugees fleeing south making progress impossible for vehicles. Even though they did not want to be separated, my uncle was forced to put his wife on one of the boats heading to Saigon because she was pregnant and would never be able to keep up on foot. When he finally made it to Saigon a few weeks later, he found out that his wife has not arrived and not knowing where she was or what else to do, decided to stay with us in hope that she would find him. Later we learned that the boat she was on had unexpectedly dropped everyone, including his wife, off at Cam Ranh Bay (another city in the central highlands) to go back north for more refugees. My poor aunt was unable to find a way to get to Saigon until after the fighting was over and escape was impossible.

Meanwhile for the rest of us, time was running out. We knew that if we were going to leave it had to be now. We waved down one of the few remaining navy boats which was headed out to sea but stopped to pick us up. At this time not everyone was willing to escape by boat so while it was crowded, there was none of the panic and fighting such as I saw in the photos taken at the American Embassy that day as the last helicopters were leaving. The gun-fire was getting closer and my uncle was torn between staying to look for his wife and escaping, he was worried that he and his wife would face retribution if he stayed because he had been in the army. My mother was hesitant to get on board because she had to choose between leaving with us or staying so that she could see her mother for the first time since 1954 when north and south Vietnam were separated. Finally she decided to stay and promised to find us after the war ended. As the boat pulled away I can still remember my mother standing on the dock, crying and waving to us. I was yelling : “Stop the boat, go back and get my mom”, but it was too late. In those few minutes my family was torn apart and for last time I saw Vietnam. As my mother watched the boat leaving with her children she was overcome with grief and changed her mind. Desperately she stood at the dock for five hours waiting for another boat to take her out to our ship, but none came.

On the way out of Saigon, we saw hundreds of returning boats and some of them warned us not to go on because troops were shooting at any boats trying to escape to the open sea. The people on our boat were very determined and decided to take their chances and leave.

Many of the boats we saw leaving were severely overloaded and one of the ships had run aground in shallow water. Our smaller boat pulled alongside the old, rust streaked ship and an agreement was reached that everyone who wanted to could transfer from our boat to the ship, and in return our boat would help pull the ship into deeper water. After struggling for three or four hours both vessels finally reached deep water and all passengers were transferred. The small boat turned back toward Saigon, taking a few people who had changed their minds and decided to go back. The ship, even more overcrowded than before slowly headed out to the open ocean for the long dangerous voyage ahead. Even though we had made it out of Saigon there was no celebrating, everyone was dwelling on what they had left behind and what the uncertain future would hold. That night was pitch black, there were no lights on our ship or on shore. We watched fireworks shooting up from the coastal villages into the dark sky. The communists were celebrating their victory and we could hear one of the generals broadcasting a new set of rules which he called ” the ten commandments “. These commandments were to govern life for those left behind in the new Vietnam. Our intended destination was Singapore and we slowly headed south. The weather was good and if it were not for the grim circumstances I might have been able to appreciate the beauty of the blue ocean and the small islands we passed. Once we saw some whales which terrified everyone because they were nearly as large as our ship and came very close. When I look back on the event, I think that everyone leaning over one side to watch the whales was more dangerous to the ship than the whales themselves.

Things started to go seriously wrong a couple of days into the journey when our engine broke down. I guess this was not very surprising considering how old and decrepit our ship was to start with. There were many more small boats from coastal villages followed us and dumping refugees onto our ship each day. The water started to coming in from an existing hole on the side of the hull of our ship which is now below the waterline because of the refugees’ weight. After drifting a few days, our food and water were running out, making an already bad situation very desperate. People started to fight over food and water. Everyone was being very careful to ration their water and food except for this popular singer from Saigon who would use a great deal of her small supply of water to wash her face each day. Obviously some people are more afraid of being unattractive than dying.

Everyone thought that we were going to die slowly and horribly, despair settled over the ship like a numbing fog. A man near me decided not to wait and shot himself in the head. I remember screaming when his blood and brain tissue splattering on me. On the crowded deck there was no where to store the body so there was no choice but to toss his body overboard and within minutes the sharks were fighting over it. As days passed, so great was my fear and loss that I felt neither hunger or thirst. My mind had cut off my ability to feel or comprehend what was happening around me, which was maybe a good thing considering what life was like onboard. Even though the ship was extremely overcrowded there was very little talking, everyone seemed wrapped up in their own misery. My brother and sister sat nearby crying and hugging each other. The crowding was so great that one night when I stood up to stretch, I found that I could no longer find a space to sit back down so I ended up standing the entire night until I collapsed. Having learned my lesson I did not get up again until we were rescued.

Despite our SOS signals and desperate attempts to get their attention, many ships passed us by without stopping but finally after floating what seemed like forever we were picked up by a Danish freighter out of Thailand on their way to Hong Kong. After being left by so many other ships, everyone was afraid that if we did not get onboard the freighter fast enough they would leave without us. Most of the people started to panic and there was a lot of pushing and shoving to get on board. Some fights even broke out and many passengers left their personal belongings behind in the mad rush. One man’s leg got crushed between the two ships when they collided into each other. Many others fell into the water and drowned during the rescued. By the time we were rescued, I could not move my legs because of sitting in one spot for so long; I had to be carried up to the freighter by one of the ship’s crew. That night as I was resting from my ordeal someone stole all the cash and jewelry that my mother had given me.

So when it was over all I had left of Vietnam were memories of people and places that had been left behind. For many years afterward, I would get angry when I thought about what had happened and what I lost. I was not angry at anyone in particular, rather I was angry how events and ideologies which I did not understand could take me from everything I knew and loved. After my mother and other members of my family have moved here recently, I finally have the chance once again to know the family I lost twenty years ago.

 

Alpha-Omega

My work shows our life’s journey from birth to death. These events are the bond that links all human beings. In between we encounter life’s challenges, both good and bad. The torso represents our beginning, the copper wire warrior figure shows our battle with life’s forces, and the lino block suggests our passage through time in the unknown. The jagged edges on the mirror glass show our testing times, where the smooth line of the circle represents life’s calmer waters. In traditional Celtic Art this holds the promise of eternity. For this reason I have included the circles and spiral symbols.

 

Pam’s Tear Box

Tajima Box Project. An artist and an extraordinary woman collaborate to create a box.

Pam Praeger, VICE PRESIDENT OF LEARNING, SPOKANE FALLS COMMUNITY COLLEGE

One of the first things that Pam said to me was, “I don’t know if anyone mentioned it to you but I lost my daughter in May and I’m still struggling with the loss.” She said it almost apologetically. As I got to know Pam it became clear that Tara, the lost daughter, set a high bar for her mother through the lessons she taught the whole family during her dying. I also learned that Pam and Tara are a lot alike. Even in pain Pam’s first impulse was to help me. I knew instinctively that it was also what Tara would have done. I am grateful to Pam and Tara for their generosity and honesty. During our time together Pam cried more than once and each time she seemed at a loss about what to do with her tears. So I’ve made a Magic box for those tears. Its capacity is endless.

Untitled

Culver City High School. Grade 11.

My box represents impermanence and fragility, what was once a solid object is now only dust. The silhouette connects this metaphor with human life in that the picture is so fragile that it will scatter with the slightest wind, it is not expected to last forever.

 

In Memory of My Father

This box turned out to be about the death of my father (1925-1986). In thinking about the exhibition and before I actually had the box in my hands I thought of “hope chests” and “Pandora’s box,” both representing women’s issues and lives. But behind these thoughts was always the image of coffins and bone boxes (the boxes that the bones of the dead in Greece are transferred into after their initial burial).

After receiving the box and playing around with it for awhile, I had to go with the more direct, personal association of my father’s death. So it became a shrine, a memento mori, a symbolic object. The words on top are FUTURE, PLACE, GOOD MAN, LIES. The words inside of the half-open box are HERA, MOTHER, THERAPY, FATHER, DREAM, STRANGER. We will all go to this future place. Here, a good man, lies. Hera, Greek goddess, wife of Zeus, mother/father/therapy, dream, father stranger.

Dreams of Dancing

Idee Levitan, an artist and patron of the arts, world traveler, lifelong philosophy student, adventure seeker, mountain climber, wife, friend, and proud member of a most independent sisterhood of polio survivors, died before she had the opportunity to work on the Women Beyond Borders project.  The virgin box was among the mementos Idee’s husband sent to me.  My dearest soulmate, Elena Mary Siff, invited me to create a tribute to Idee’s spirit so that Idee might be a part of an intriguing and profound exhibition she would have heartily embraced.  The Wheel Chair could not contain her Dreams of Dancing…

 

Emerge: Each Holy Remain

This book/box was produced for the 1999 leg of the Women Beyond Borders show.  Its surfaces covered with gesso (support for intricate graphite drawings) and gold leaf, includes a reliquary indicating potential life, death, and  emergence into light. The 52-page book pictures detritus from daily living, preserved by attentive drawing and watercolor: seeds, bones, plant tips, shells, buds, nuts, skeletons.

I know that there are lives much tougher than my own, and that I am enormously privileged to luxuriate in the poignant beauty of the commonplace. I hope that we all sometimes have the opportunity to pause and consider, even in the helpless despair of suffering and the frustrating reality of working so hard so often for our own survival; physical, spiritual, intellectual and emotional, and that of our loved ones, as well as all sentient beings.

El Voto

This is a memorial to all in my country, Guatemala, who have never received a proper burial, and were not only insanely murdered by the army of their own country, but then piled up in clandestine cemeteries, so that their loved ones could never come and be with them.  

And the epitaph (THE WISH) reads as follows:

Oh! Please give us a tomb!
a tomb for our souls,
for our poor bodies,
so sore
and tough
from that volcanic lime!

We plead you,
we implore you, dear God, dear people,
dear brothers,
little brothers and little sisters,
give us a tomb,
a safe tomb,
with a shroud made of sweetness,
a place to console us,
a nice place,
to erase the infamy,
a beautiful tomb,
for us!

 

Al Cuore del Cuor

My connection and admiration for my fellow women grow ever stronger as I grow older. This was to have been the theme of my box.

My father died in my arms a short while ago, calling “Mama.” How varied, how interchangeable, how understanding of the incomprehensible we must be. How I strive to trust my instinct that taps deep, deep, deep into the strength, the capacity, the tenacity of a woman.

My box is for my father, whom I miss with all my hearts. He was a painter, he taught me to see.

The Power of Life

The difference between death and life…the immortal still rise from the grave and represent a strong life which is seen everywhere.  The freshness of the flowers differs from the quietness of the gray burnt tombstone, the dry and stained pieces of iron and even the spike tunnel where death is always near by.

Flowers still live and rise above all.

Withdrawal

Withdrawal into a coffin, which feels like a tub that may only be locked from the inside.

Withdrawal like a hurt fox withdraws into her fox-den to lick her wounds to put one’s dreams in order.

One, who is carried inside by some people anyway, becomes only rarely visible for the outside. (Only few can feel and understand the distance originating thereof, and are therefore especially close) from life, from the existence.

To bring dying to an end & to begin anew.

 

 

Permanent Love

“Love’s over brimming mystery joins life and death.”              Tagore

In former times, Romeo and Juliet could not remain together, and were willing to die side by side. In recent days, the modern Romeo and Juliet ran from the Bosnian siege, also dying side by side. How many such unhappy love stories are there over the world?

I believe in destiny. I make this box as a coffin, with the wish that it is the house of girls and boys, women and men who love one another, yet are not able to become man and wife. This box is a love coffin for Permanent Love.

Men and women in love, whether old or young, may die, but their love still remains, it never dies.  They will lie in the same coffin, and pray to live together in many future lives.

Love Death

Loves Me – Loves Me Not

To be loved by the person one loves is everyone’s dream. It is a simple and obvious feeling, yet often pregnant with anxiety. Am I really loved by the one I love? To answer this question many people – or at least young girls – have picked daisies in the summer and plucked the petals to get an intimation of fate’s understanding of the other’s feelings.

That love is not a simple matter is, perhaps, one of our earliest lessons. We must hope that the daisy petals have not been disruptive of health or future. But in former times it was common to try to influence one’s love-life with various herbs. In his anthology Om Folkmedicinens Lakeorter. (Medicinal Herbs in Popular Medicine- 1981), Matts Bergmark has listed plants that are aphrodisiacs, as well as otherwise beneficial. The Valerian root has, for many centuries, been connected with many properties. Its French name is guerit tout, cure all, and in Egyptian mythology it was connected with the cat family and the subject of special worship. In Norse mythology Valerian was connected with Freja. It was an ingredient in aphrodisiacs and, with Mistletoe, was considered to further fertility.

But if fertility has been sought, the fear of giving birth to an unwanted child has been all the stronger. Juniperus Sabina, a relation of the Juniper, is filled with volatile oil in its branches and has gained its name, Sabina, from the Sabine people who lived near to Rome. A decoction of Juniperus Sabina  was widely used as an abortifacient. But if the fetus died the mother frequently followed it into the realm of death. For a mere six drops of the ether sufficed for an overdose leading to a painfully slow death.

The Story of Late Chen Yuen Mei (Ma Che)

The work focuses on the life story of late Chen, a ma che or domestic servant, who came to Singapore from China in the early twentieth century. Despite having a hard life, she persevered for a brighter future. With her meager earnings, she supported her entire family in China, and contributed towards the purchase of 51 Neil Road. The premises housed the former Yuek Ann Tang which was a temple as well as an association that served as a refuge for ma ches; these women like Chen, were alone and poor. In her old age, Chen suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. Chen gains my utmost respect, not only for her contributions to the association, but also for her outstanding character. She demonstrated strength and perseverance throughout her life. The work aims to develop an invisible space beyond the box, and includes a web site that walks one through the places where she lived. To fulfill Chen’s dream of a grand funeral and send-off on her last journey, the box serves as her coffin.

 

Transmitting Life

This project is dedicated to my father. My dad has been a friend to me since I was young. Being a traditional Asian man, he has never made me feel inferior for being female. In fact, he gave me the space to develop my potential as a person. This work allows me to express my reflections on my dad’s failing health. Initially, I wanted to portray the notion of dying, but through prayers and time spent with him, I realized that even though his days are numbered, his undying sense of humor, his child-likeness, and his concern and love for the well-being of his loved ones have never diminished. Through his dying, I gradually learn to live; not to escape but to be present and available to my family. The red paper signifies the vibrancy of life which my father shares with me. In a symbolic gesture, visitors are encouraged to touch the paper and get their fingers tainted and red.

My World

My box is a small square world, and part of my world is in the box. On opening My World and looking closer one sees part of my individual history. A mirrored reflection of my wedding day. It represents love, culture, and intimacy. The bottom of the box is a coffin.

 

For Ritta

USA/Czech Republic

My sister died before I was a little girl.
She was put in a gas chamber in a
concentration camp.

My daddy was so sad he couldn’t stop
them so he made another little girl right
away so he could forget about Ritta and
be happy again

Only this was not ok with G-d. G-d
thought that this was too fast so he
played a trick on Daddy. He took
Ritta’s soul, which was still very upset
from being starved and gassed and
burned and sent it back to Earth.

Normally a soul would be allowed to
float around out there for a couple
hundred years or more to calm down
after doing Life. So it was shocking for
Ritta’s soul to come back too quickly
and-this was the mean part-to be
stuck in Janicka’s body.

This was very hard for me. I thought I
was supposed to smile. Everyone
wanted me to be a happy pretty little girl
so they could be happy and forget. But,
too bad looked like a bullfrog and I
could tell they thought that and were
ashamed. So no smiles. They didn’t
know about Ritta’s soul and that it took
up so much space may own little heart
didn’t have room to beat.

So along we went, poor starved gassed
and burned Ritta and what was left of
me and no one knew so I was very sad
and lonely. And poor Daddy couldn’t
forget Ritta because she was inside the
little bullfrog.

The Battlefield of Selfhood/ A Box of Empty Shells to Ponder

Beings killing out of jealousy, rage,
betrayal, revenge, self righteousness.

Some die without a loss of body though —
through abuse and intimidation, disagreement.

Untamed emotions creating a battlefield within.
Un-conquered, raw, heartless.

The primary battlefield.

Led from the mind, from the heat of hatred,
destroying another, destroying the Self.

Hear the names of outer battlefields —
Bosnia, Iraq,
Oklahoma City, Somalia, subways in Japan.
In the home,
Couples turning from lovers to killers.
Children killing children.

Anger looming in the human heart —
on the loose, unpredictable.
Where is the greatest battlefield to conquer,
on the terrain or in the heart?

Where to fight the battle?

A box of empty shells to ponder.

Untitled (Pandora)

People say that in some northern farmyards a cover closes the wells that are not in use anymore. The owners justify this closure, saying that children or visitors could, accidentally, fall to the bottom of one of these wells. The truth is that their motives are less thoughtful. What they fear is not that somebody might fall, but that the child who was thrown to the bottom of the well, like a family secret, suddenly surfaces again to the world.

Untitled

Before 1994, our country was good. After April ’94, blood was shed. Many people died and the majority of genocide survivors are struggling with life.

So, the telephone you see is calling for help. We believe that God is the first to come.
Inside the box, there is my heart. I will never forget my relatives, my friends, children’s blood…

The blue color means that I hope to live happily. Jesus will take me with him.

Beatrice’s Box – A Coffin

The figures on the top represent her husband and four children who were all murdered during the genocide. She had to (forced) watch, as her husband was hacked into four or five pieces. Overwhelmed with tears, she could not go any further.
Note the small red heart on the side.

Posibilidades

What is this piece about? For me, it’s about the danger of sensuality. How we are beckoned by the flesh. How our desire can become our anguish. How a wrong decision can mean death, be it of the spirit or the body. How the need for self-destruction can be initiated in a seemingly healthy person from the hurt and pain of a relationship. Thus — the presence of the sword. Although I also see this sword as positive, perhaps a form of protection or an attribute, like that of Saint Agnes. *

The question of violence enters in here, too. This woman — in all her sensuality — is in a coffin. Why? Was she a victim of violence, of rape? Can our sensual self die under certain circumstances? Is our nudity kept hidden away in a dark, quiet place?

The veil also invokes the mysteriousness of Muslim women, their eyes being their only available sensual feature.

* (Saint Agnes was very beautiful, but she rejected all of her suitors, one of whom became angry and had her condemned to death. Since it was forbidden to execute virgins, she was first sent to a burdel. Nevertheless, no man was able to touch her. After being tortured, she was finally decapitated. She is often portrayed with a sword piercing her breast. She is the patron saint of virginal innocence.)

Eva’s Last Wish

“33 years old, 33 kilos; that’s it. Listen Sara, this is an order, because I am going to die, afterwards they will call you to get me ready. You will take away this wishy washy red that I am wearing, and you will replace it with the transparent Queen of Diamonds that you bought for me yesterday, the one from Revlon.”

These were the last words of Eva Perón to Sara Gatti, who used to take care of her hands.

I combined three elements in this box:

• Cards we all play with. The most elegant queen on the deck, surrounded by a special touch of distinction: diamonds.
• As a metaphor of adherent beauty, I have interpreted acrylic nails shops, which are very popular in Guatemala nowadays.
• Evita is the heroine, the saint, the prostitute, a character that still touches many a heart.

Queen of diamonds. An embalmed body with painted fingernails. Symbol of a moment in which she took care of history. Every story has had an Evita, a woman who rules, loves, orders, and rouses from her fingernails, the power of her own world, her own story, her own time.

Evas, to the end; queens, not forever.

Limitation

Each restriction, each limitation is just like a coffin.

Don’t dance, don’t see, don’t speak, don’t do anything and
don’t be what you want to be. . .

Each restriction, each limitation which annihilates natural desires and wishes is like a coffin overwhelming the spirit.

Although all through history and in many educational and governmental systems these coffins have been made for men and women, women have always been more victims of these restrictions and limitations or confined to these coffins.