“I’ll Never Give Up On A Precious Friend."

Lowkey did not finish this

Researching the Women of the Sea, the free-diving haenyeo women.

I first discovered these haenyeo women while researching another free-diver, Kimi Werner, as she traveled to dive with them, searching for answers around her worth as a diver, as a woman, as a new/ soon to be mother. She was welcomed into this diving circle with warmth and wisdom. They spoke of their work, daily difficulties, pregnancies and births out on the boats, the value and freedom they experience being the first accepted working mothers of their culture. I thought this was a perfect research piece to bring into my project.

In an article I found, the writer, Luciano Candisani, writes:

“… the sea. I am fascinated by the people whose livelihoods depend on it, and I have come to Jeju to learn more about a traditional way of life that, like many such cultures, is at risk of dying out. At the age of 90, Hyun Seon-jik still spends most of her time in the sea, out beyond the waves of Samdal-ri beach. She swims a five-hour shift with her fellow divers, searching for the seafood she collects for trading. Only shells that have grown over 7cm in size are taken; anything smaller is returned to the water to grow.”

This tradition of diving stems from the 17th century off the coast of Jeju Island, South Korea. Both men and women used to dive with just the air in their lungs and swim down where they would harvest the ocean floor. However, when abalone was confiscated for tax reasons, the male divers were outraged, leaving en mass, searching for other work. The women were left, turning as before to the sea for survival. After each dive the women would return to their homes, talking in their own haenyeo dialect. They began to practice “then-marginalised shamanic rituals, brought to Korea by nomadic peoples from Siberia and Manchuria around 6,000 years ago. With offerings to nature gods, they would thank these animist entities for the copious sea life received, asking for protection against strong underwater currents, storms, and marine predators.” Today we can see this systematic, unique, cohesive culture, founded and managed by the women themselves, in a society ruled by state ideologies holding that women should be subservient to men.

Throughout history, the haenyeo tradition has remained strong, although now, currently, there are only around 4000 remaining haenyeo divers, as young women do not want to take on the lifestyle of their grandmothers. However, there is a wellness and peacefulness in the intensity of these diving women. They don’t want their daughters to have to live this way, but, as stated in the article, the haenyeo are closer than sisters. The sea is their life and joy.

I was really touched when researching these women decided to create a two part linocut of them in my graphic media section. (The second panel is currently drying in the print room.)

Sources:

I can’t resist myself not to draw saiino moment from @zazellynn‘s post. thank you for blessing me

day 1: colors @saiinomonth

the rest of the world was black and white, but we were in screaming color

reference by: jangsa_kk

Zines: A Creative Outlet for Everyone

Have you ever felt that itch to create something that’s entirely your own, something that captures your thoughts, passions, and creativity? If so, you’re going to love the world of zines. These little self-published gems are the perfect way to express yourself without any of the usual constraints.  So, what exactly are zines? Well, the name is short for magazines or fanzines, but they’re a whole…

Sai + Assorted Text Posts (Part 3)

and if we kick all of the catholic girlies out of tumblr, who's going to write the gothic literature fanfiction that will emotionally devastate millions?

literally so funny in tbk the amount of times alyosha scurries and vaults himself over walls and hedges and gates while in his longass monk robes. the image of it described every time is the funniest thing ever i love him so dearly

Mother Mud

I saw a women who came up from the floorboards, from the soil beneath the crawl space of my old creaky home. Nude and streaked in grime she crept along the floor, her hands and feet leaving muddy prints that shone in the static television light. She crept to where a father lay sleeping on the stained lumpy couch. He was not my father, but he was a father.

Keep reading