Sea foam gives birth to idylls. When looking into the soothingly rushing, liquid mirror, it is quickly forgotten that an act of cruel violence preceded it: the obviously surplus 'best' (worst?) piece is secured, thrown into the sea by the son to the father, at the behest even of the mother, hence the foam, obviously a bio-chemical-mythical reaction. From the shell, blown ashore, emerges beauty in person. She is the center of the idyll, from her it goes out, she embodies everything blooming and green. Does, in Botticelli, the shame of the landing Venus, whose hand and hair cover the sex, testify to the preceding castratic fall? In any case, she points away from herself, towards the other prehistoric time, just as she points towards a lustful, male observer position. Janina Roider's Super Woman is not chaste - and she is attractive. She is touched: The mad hands of her ancestor Venus pat her thigh - and cover - nothing. The artist's hand opens Venus, as many a famous art historian had tried to do before: instead of resting closed in herself (and nevertheless, secretly, 'chastely', surrendering to the male gaze), Super Woman reaches lasciviously into her hair, she confidently masters the poses that make it into Playboy. She doesn't look stupidly dreamy into nothingness, like her ancient sister, she looks down at her own body with half-closed eye and sends, as on the dance floor, to the observing environment a proud signal of unshakable self-confidence. The red-gold glow of the old hair makes the face glow where once there was shadow. The parasol she wears as a (political) accessory does not shield: neither from the new, colorful sun, nor from the seemingly pale gaze of the old Hore, towards which her pose opens. The umbrella is counterpart to the shell, what stirs in the picture, stirs, between two lips - it stirs differently and conceals - nothing. It conceals too little, because what presents itself as Super Woman gives more and moreover too little: does she reveal Botticelli's Venus as a phallic, flat-chested non-mother? Who is deeply involved in the establishment of patriarchal order? Or does Super Woman stage Venus in drag - (almost) without drag? But what is given is certainly a proud fall from grace, also a form of aesthetic violence, a provocation, which, however, obviously does not depend on castration. On the contrary.

Super Woman is hybrid - and thus breaks looks. She is, (like) her ancestor, a pop cliché, but at the same time crosses the cliché by doubling it to the point of multiplicity. She is a former venus pudica and spear carrier at the same time. What was once a weapon stretches open, unfolds into an apotropaic umbrella that repels by no longer fearing anything and instead, together with the deep blue waves, gives the rainbow its spectral colors. Under the umbrella peeps the ancient Hore, who has undergone a metamorphosis: she has become, over the centuries, the transhuman Daphne. She does not throw a symbol-laden floral cloak that would envelop Super Woman; she has undergone a plant-becoming, not laurel, but palm - with two nuts - and 'flees' - it is rather a yearning - with open palm wings towards the central figure.

Will she involve them in the transformation by her embrace? À la Deleuze over becoming a woman to becoming a plant? The cosung announcing itself is of a different kind than it happened between the old blowing faces in the left sky; only after centuries the expression on the face of the nymph now shows unequivocally that the embrace bringing spring and thus 'fertility', for which she had used Pustemann Zephyr, was not at all about her lust. Her mouth has long since stopped spitting out roses, partly because she has not been allowed to say anything for the sake of mythology; a mixture of Botox and sedative drugs make her stuffed pair of lips the admonishing counterpart of the open shell.

Even though Super Woman has long since landed and its patriarchal fertility has long since run dry, Zephyr is allowed to keep blowing. It blooms and is (too?) colorful, with becoming, on the beach. And Super Woman wants to finally, during her metamorphoses and in the company of the palm nymphs, learn to ride the waves.

She will remain entangled, in the cliché - not only from tradition, but also from pop culture, glossy magazine, photo wallpaper, advertising industry, digital everyday life... How could she work on the cliché, without intense entanglement?

So what do we see when we look into these liquid-rushing, idyllic mirrors? Perhaps: in what manifold ways we ourselves are entangled. And: how meerschaum gives birth to new, unexpected entanglements.

Johannes Ungelenk