Mary and Elizabeth 

Curator: Oh, there's such a haunted beauty in this woodcut. When I first saw it, I thought of deep confessions whispered in the dark. Editor: The stark contrasts really pull you in, don't they? Tell me more about what we're seeing. Curator: This is Käthe Kollwitz's "Mary and Elizabeth." The scene feels almost medieval, perhaps recalling some hidden gospel tale. Editor: It’s interesting you say medieval, given Kollwitz was working in a very specific modern context. This stark contrast is achieved through woodcut. So, think about the physical labor—carving away at the wood, the unforgiving nature of the medium. The white isn't painted, it's *absence*. Each mark represents a decision. Curator: Absolutely, it's so powerful, a visceral push and pull. There’s an intimacy to it—their faces almost touch, hands intertwined, or rather, floating between the two like offering or secretive spell. Editor: Yes, hands are essential here; they have so much texture and visibility when the figures themselves merge into shadow. It suggests labor—holding, comforting—maybe it refers to a transfer of knowledge. Curator: Possibly. Given Kollwitz’s penchant for depicting maternal bonds, there’s this silent understanding that goes beyond words. I sense vulnerability. And resilience too. They appear connected but individual. Editor: Exactly. The monochrome further emphasizes this, reducing it to essential forms: labor and figure, black and white. I also find it noteworthy that this print allows for multiples to exist—accessible, meant for distribution, perhaps hinting a deeper political significance. Curator: Perhaps, I always felt Kollwitz work allowed multiple entry points to it. Thank you! It helped me clarify what haunts in this artwork. Editor: Agreed, a single cut, repeated, transformed. Thank you, it’s insightful how we’ve pulled out the more human side.