Not free, naughty and disagreeable like I was in my twenties. Not homely, tethered and satisfied with my responsibilities as I felt I should be as a mother.

This collection is my slow, friction-filled metamorphosis into capital M, Motherhood. The representation of all I wanted to be, all I think I should be. The woman I aspired to be in my twenties, the woman I am fearful of becoming in my thirties. This collection views the before and the after, the sex and the consequences, the holy mother and the bad girl. The cadence of time, the influx of responsibilities and the constantly nagging, yearning, needing to be judged in the correct light, as a mother, as a woman, as an artist. 

What helps me rest easy is that this was never a choice. Without motherhood, there is no life. Beneath all of it, all of the dreams and plans and cute clothes and fitness routines we’re driven, madly and insufferably, to put it all on hold and give ourselves to something else, someone or two others. To make more of us, duplicate as our lineage is keen to do, and if we can make some sort of art to coincide, that’s just the bonus, not the purpose. Storytelling and child-rearing. There’s never been anything more human than that.