crone

“Margaret, you must do something about my face. To look at me, anyone would think I was a bloodless old crone of twenty-five.”

“Survive the night or become a part of it,” a crone whispers to Clover during her second loop, and therein lies the key to their survival.

Unlike Eugène Delacroix’s 1830 image of a beautiful and bare-breasted personification of French freedom, Kollwitz’s crone is shown from the back, her sinewy arms raised and hands clenched urgently, practically launching herself into the crowd.

True enough; and I’m happy to report that there is no resemblance whatsoever between these patchwork crones and the artist.

“One of them said, ‘This old crone is proud of you.’”