Likely, this all started as a real diary entry of me asking, “wtf is going on?” I wrote,  trying to figure it out, and when that didn’t work, I catastrophised and started drawing about it. Drawing the facets I wanted to be, wanted to be perceived as, wanted to bring back from my twenties, and wanted desperately not to be included in. Writing about the artworks has become as integral to the practice as the artworks themselves. Possibly, there’s a land where one can overexplain. I don’t live in that place. Through the words came visuals, and from the visuals came more words. The collection is more personal than any before it, and I am happy to announce that it has helped me through some shit. That mess is within these pages. That mess has been rinsed, washed, ironed and presented behind glass. Presented as a complete thought when it is all just a development, a part of the process. An artwork is finished only when I’m ready to move on. The collection took five months, and a third of my children’s lives so far, which puts it into perspective. I have moved through the identity crises, and it lies in these pages. This is how I made art from the confusion, the foreignness, the loss of the old and the adapting into a new person.