Femininity, between two worlds

What does femininity mean? Is it a role imposed on us or a force that unfolds beyond convention? Is it light or pain, creation or rebellion? These questions run through the exhibition "Femininity," which runs from May 16 to July 6, 2025, at the SCHLUH Gallery in Worpswede.

Three artists—Anna Schill, Julia Pugacheva, and Markus Lippeck—approach this topic through painting, graphics, sculptures, and a room-filling installation. Their works speak of transformation, intuition, and identity. The exhibition is accompanied by the publication of Anna Schill's book "Between Two Worlds"—a collection of essays that explores femininity from diverse perspectives.

One of the central texts in this book, "Women Woven of Light and Pain," is more than a reflection on women in art. It is an emotional journey through generations of female artists, through their struggles and triumphs, their quiet, often invisible power. With haunting images, this text tells of women who were not just muses, but creators, many of whom only found recognition after their deaths.

We invite you to explore this text—as a foretaste of the exhibition and as an invitation to read the book "Between Two Worlds." Let yourself be moved by stories that capture the essence of femininity in all its depth.

📅 Vernissage and opening program: May 16, 2025, from 5:00 PM

📍 Location: Galerie SCHLUH, Im Schluh 71, 27726 Worpswede

🕰 Opening hours: Friday – Sunday, 11:00 – 18:00

Immerse yourself in this artistic exploration of femininity – in word, image and space.

I love painting women. Real, naked, beautiful women. Not those whose bodies conform to norms or to the expectations of others, but those who decide for themselves what they want to do with their bodies: expose or cover them, decorate them or leave them natural. In each work, I collect their stories like complicated chemical formulas: one part pain, two parts freedom, a pinch of doubt, a drop of unbridled joy, and half a kilogram of patience. It's as if I'm assembling a mosaic from hundreds of fragments: scraps of emotions, experiences, and memories merge into a whole, so that the woman sees herself not through society's eyes, but through her own.

For me, the connection to women in art is like an electrical circuit, as if we were nerve cells connected by invisible threads. We feel each other for billions of minutes and through the heavy earth that bears the past

Like signals transmitted through the mycelium: almost invisible, yet tangible. The memory of all our predecessors lives in the genes of each of us. Their experiences, their quiet presence, whisper to us: "You are not alone."

Frida Kahlo used her palette as if it were a weapon against the pain tearing her body apart. Paula Modersohn-Becker left behind her paintings to show the world: The artist exists, despite all the "That's not possible." Tatjana Jablonskaja spoke with the voice of a woman who constantly fights for recognition. Each of her brushstrokes, each word, was an act of resistance and love. When I look back on her life, I sometimes feel a strange, almost animalistic rage: I want to destroy every man who made her path difficult. But at the same time, it becomes clear to me: Her art, her fight for her place in the world, made her immortal.

I have always admired female poets. Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva—their verses seemed to me the embodiment of a noble tragedy, in which every word, like a knife, cut through the images of their suffering. At that time, I knew I didn't realize how much pain lay behind these poems, how emotional wounds were transformed into poetic masterpieces. Today, I see things differently. I know that Tsvetaeva was mentally ill, like many poets of the Silver Age, that behind her inspiration lay a silent loneliness. Nevertheless, I still love the poetry of this period. Someone once said, "One shouldn't confuse personality with its work."

In literature, I saw myself reflected in the image of Anna Karenina. Especially during the days when I was going through my divorce. It seemed as if Tolstoy was observing me, dissecting my feelings, doubts, and fears. This book became therapy for me: I experienced my pain through its pages, just as Anna experienced hers.

The image of women in art has never been static. In antiquity, she was the great mother who united everything on which life depended. In the Middle Ages, her beauty became a painful, pale mask, as if a testament to her suffering. The Renaissance gave her harmony of form, keeping her