Stories Never Told, but Not Forgotten

Lucinda Williams was born in Tennessee in about 1795. In 1811, she married John Russell in Alabama, and proceeded to become my 4th great grandmother in my maternal line. She was the mother of eight children. I am descended from her youngest daughter, Lucy Catherine Russell. These bare facts are the sum total of what I know about her, but I carry her mitochondrial DNA in my cells, as do my daughters, granddaughters, and great granddaughter. In fact, we living generations carry the DNA of Lucinda’s great grandmothers extending for generation upon generation into the unknown past. We are physically linked to countless other woman descended from a familial Eve lost in time and space. Stories never told, but not forgotten, echoed in flesh.

This is both profoundly staggering and yet completely ordinary. Every living person on earth is an echo of their own maternal line, , converging backwards into the single family we once were. This sense of existential belonging, of my humble and yet important role in the great interlocking chain is a source of endless fascination. I return to it again and again in my work. I pick it up, turn it this way and that, and examine it closely, rooting at some essential but ephemeral truth. In our vast sisterhood, women are the ties that bind, the tellers that weave our stories, the bearers of culture, the fabric of life.

This piece was completed as a challenge: working in cool colors, complete sets of collage papers in light, medium, and dark tones; then selecting only five or six favorite papers, complete a series of six thematically linked collages, working on all six at the same time. The color palette was a bit of a departure for me, and I struggled at first to find my rhythm with it. That step outside my comfort zone eventually led to me exploring new ways of expressing my recurring sense of connection to the unsung artists, mothers, daughters, and sisters spread like constellations across my history. I hoped to hint at the hidden narratives beneath the surface of all our lives, to speak of buried memories and mysteries forever lost. If Lucinda’s 4th great grandmother could be conjured before my eyes, would I see myself in her?

Images and text by Wanda Oliver, all rights reserved.