Hannah Moraw

by Julian Schomäker

Between noise and silence, straightforwardness and sensitive caution, between screaming into a
microphone, pink wool and subtle sketches next to intimate texts in the same sketchbooks Hannah
moves around her very own impressions of the world. Radical softness and radical immediacy,
oppositions appearing naturally next to each other. Intensity and power don’t always need grand,
nor intruding ways of elaboration, Hannah says. She wants to provide access to her own biographic
and theoretical world. It’s about everything she’s either confronted or dealing with in her daily life.
It’s about good as well as bad human connection, about queer feminism, sexuality and gender. With
fine lines and quick, roaring movements she keeps documenting her own perception in the
sketchbooks she tends to always carry with her. Then suddenly a scream trying to wake one up:
“Lesbian” it says. Ultimately her scream fades and Hannah is found sitting on a bed, doing nothing.
She says that if she were to be an object, she would be a colored pencil, one of those with three
colors.