Over the past months I’ve been carving my own way through Amsterdam—quite literally. My latest linoprint places a map of the city at its center, but instead of framing it with canals or buildings, I surrounded it with something older, quieter, and often overlooked: the native plants and fungi that shaped this landscape long before streets and tramlines did.
Bog Myrtle, Marsh Thistle, Purple Loosestrife, and a handful of mushrooms unfold around the map like a protective ring. Each of them belongs to the region’s original wetlands and riverbanks, back when Amsterdam was a patchwork of marshes and wild growth. These plants carry stories—both ecological and folkloric—and bringing them into the piece felt like inviting a forgotten chorus to speak again.
Bog Myrtle was once carried for protection and clarity; Purple Loosestrife was believed to restore harmony; thistles guarded thresholds. Including them felt like weaving small spells around the city—a reminder that even urban spaces hold layers of myth.
Carving this piece became a kind of time travel: from modern Amsterdam back to its marshland beginnings, and then into the symbolic world of magical botany. It’s a map, but also a memory—of the city, of the landscape under it, and of my own place within those overlapping stories.