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Aeyde Anemoia Ch. 02

“Hansel and Gretel” by Durga Chew-Bose
Images: Pavel Golik
Words: Durga Chew-Bose
Date: 25.02.2025
This season, we invite guest editor Durga Chew-Bose to reimagine six Grimm Brothers’ tales that inspired the Aeyde SS25 collection. In Chapter 02, Chew-Bose brings “Hansel and Gretel” into contemporary realms, offering a fresh perspective on the traditional storyline. The editorial marks the second in a series of commissions exploring German folklore and mythology, rooted in the seasonal concept of “Aeyde Anemoia.”
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Listen to "Hansel & Gretel"
By Durga Chew-Bose

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The first pattern they made looked something like a spiral. A coiled growth, expanding with real pleasure, one pebble at a time. They hadn’t intended to make a spiral. No, not at all. The design was out of their control; unruly, but in a quiet way, like gossip that doesn’t go anywhere. Like a breeze that tells on tomorrow’s storm.
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It’s funny how that happens, isn’t it? How there’s no forcing fate? How honest it is to lose one’s way? Any attempt at a straight line was quickly foiled, twisting and deviating off course. The line preferred to twirl, free and independent. And so, a spiral emerged, one sneaky pebble at a time.
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Because, as we know, the way home is never a straight line. In fact—and this belief is widely held to be true—going home is perhaps…impossible. Home will never be the same. Home is a memory is a texture is an idea. Home is a time of day, like kitchen light in the afternoon, honey-hued and known, but only in your dreams. Home is the sound of parents in the next room. Home is a stubborn cabinet that rarely closed and a bottom stair that often creaked.  Home is wood floors with cracks that seemed so alive. Home is a hallway and the smell of bread wafting towards an open window, left ajar. Home is all those things that never last like afternoon light and stuff in the oven and our imagination when it was pure and tinged with song, before we knew the words and could only hum.
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There is no real return, ever, just a faint rinse on familiar images—maybe the word for it is recognition—and the feeling of a place that beats and thrums, and sends signals, and seems to say, “go, but please, don’t try and come back.”

Here’s the thing. Spirals allow for dazzle. They are both in bloom and clamped tight. An opening and a closing. A rose and its bud. A spiral is romantic because it holds on while letting go. Spirals are the shape of fireworks and other bursts that incite Wow. They are also strange. Very, very strange. A natural shape whose curves seem unnatural.
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A spiral is a manner of being, of looking out and forward, but always somehow in passing. To spiral out, you must brush up against the past. A spiral can play hide and seek with itself: hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye, there you are, there you go, again and again, and again. And then again, once more. That’s the beauty of this spiral: they made it unconsciously, one pebble at a time, as a way of tracing backwards but never getting anywhere.
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The pattern grew and grew. It was alive and breathing and full of presence. They were lost, but in no hurry to be found. In some ways—alone and without a plan—they understood for the first time in years, what it meant to play. To enjoy the chaos of not knowing, and in turn, receive the calm of it too.  Because play had become foreign: something one does to show enjoyment and not something that might invent a new caliber enjoyment. In spiraling, time was now on their side. They could go nowhere, one pebble at a time. They could hide and perhaps never be found, one pebble at a time. They could vanish, one pebble at a time.

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