We made it out the house today for the first time, I also pushed a pram for the first time…I was nervous to be out but it went smoother than expected and belle stayed asleep most of the day. I also expressed milk sat in a disabled toilet..not sure about societies views on expressing in public.
After struggling for days latching on, we find she’s much happier taking my milk from the bottle.
Soothing Belle to sleep in between eating dinner. Had attempted to eat one handed, found that despite my feeding my baby, my appetite has significantly dropped.
Back home from hospital, feeding Belle with a syringe to make sure she got enough of my milk before she could latch properly.
New beginnings.
A face of overwhelming joy, exhaustion and desperate relief of making it through. If you had asked me at that moment if I would do it again, I would of screamed no as loudly as my final birthing schreaks. But as they say, pain is quite instantly forgotten, and here I’m left with my overbearing love for my most amazing creation yet. I feel powerful for doing it, after months of feeling so out of control. And I would go through it again everyday just to keep her here with me. This love is the most powerful emotion I’ve ever felt, enough to bring me to tears at the thought of her feeling even the slightest pain, and enough that through complete exhaustion, I will happily stay awake the whole night to watch her contented little face.
In light of my most amazing work yet, I want to dedicate part of this blog to document our life together, everyday until her first birthday. An image a day alongside something new, and this is day 1.
Primigravida
As a pregnant woman, you are identified only as this. Most people look and treat you like some delicate specimen, fragile and vulnerable. In many ways this generates a nice feeling, you walk down the street and you are recognised by the overbearing label you wear on your stomach.
A while ago I made a piece of work entitled Der Kamera (f), at the time I was playing about with control and attempting to disrupt the infamous male gaze. In doing this I experimented with pornographic imagery; projecting the frames onto my naked torso as I simultaneously tried to emulate the poses of the models. The piece is rather beautiful in form, slightly abstracted, the images of the women hi-light parts of my own as I move. I have since thought about recreating this piece now that by body has changed. I wanted to do it whilst I’m still carrying my child. I thought about how the images might distort over my contorted abdomen and about the symbolic difference the work may create. How would society react to this image of a sexualised maternal women? I believe its these ideas that teetered through my head as I took the previous black and white images in my bed.
A short while after that I was introduced to the labels ‘Gravidity’ and ‘Parity’ to refer to the number of times a woman has been pregnant (gravidity) and carried the pregnancies to a viable gestational age (parity). For example a ‘nulligravida’ is a women who has never been pregnant, whilst ‘primigravida’ (myself) refers to a woman who is pregnant for the first time, or been pregnant once. The labels go on to describe women who have had more that 3 children (multigravida), women who are over 35 and pregnant for the first time (elderly primigravida) and so with each woman, a code is constructed dependant on number of abortions, miscarriages, caesareans and vaginal births to make up parity. These labels struck me as alarming and had done for the mother who had introduced the terms to me, especially after a quick google search revealed that the same terms are used in agriculture to determine an animals milk production. Of course these are medical labels, perhaps necessary for our obstetric history. but I can’t shake the image of clinical specimen, now on a sterile conveyer belt, a machine for reproduction.
My initial idea was to share this information with other women, other mothers and see how they felt about such labels. I want to invite them to take images of themselves wearing their labels. I wonder if the images of other women will give me more of an idea of how the maternal woman is viewed. It will be certainly interesting to see how these women choose to wear their labels and take their portraits. For my own I want the label to represent that of a pageant sash, draped across my naked body. I imagine taking the images whilst still pregnant, and then again after with my child, both wearing our labelled sashes. I also wonder how society will react to images of my newborn, is it problematic to have her posed naked next to myself? Sally Mann, an influential american photographer has previously entered into this uncertain territory with her large black and white images of her children. The images are formally stunning, the children beautiful, but there is definitely something uneasy about looking at their young naked bodies.
The Heavy but yet still Reflective Practitioner
It’s very difficult at this point to concentrate on anything other than birth. My mind attempts to stay focused on the task at hand, to complete start this assignment, whilst my fingers, driven by my unruly unconscious, continue to spam my internet pages with birth related enquires. In my head the 5th has always been the end date. It’s the day I was told I was due when I was still living in Germany, and its the day my own mother would have turned 50. I can’t deny the disappointment i’ll feel if the 5th passes by without so much as a twinge. Firstly because i’ll still be uncomfortably huge and heavy. And secondly, because of the small part of me that still hopes for a kind of spiritual miracle; that my mother still has a kind of power on my life, her presence still felt. It’s very difficult to maintain perspective in these long last days, once you go past your due date you can’t control the floods of frustration and impatience in waiting and the fear of the unknown still lurking in the background, all to be shattered by a slight gush of water.
In the meantime, however, it is important to regain some composure, enough to tackle my work. I remind myself that I chose this path, and as this blog is entitled art as much as mother, It has to represent just that.
Whilst racking my brain for research methods I employ within my practice, It occurred to me that my notebook (I can’t call it a sketchbook because to me that implies it should be pretty, mine is scruffy and illegible to outsiders), containing all my ideas, plans, analysis and reflection, was my research in a nutshell. The creative process is what is important to reveal for this research project. To do this I’m going to try to work directly into this blog so it doesn’t become a showcase of my notebooks best works, and instead actually reflects my practice as an artist. It’s a task which is far easier said than done though. For one, it really goes against the grain (my grain at least) to make my work transparent. And as much of my work is deep rooted in years of reading, theory, history and discourse, my concerns where about how I could include enough to make this a true reflection. It was only after a meeting with one of my supervisors I began to see how. She assured me that I don’t need to strip away and make visible every last concept, although yes I need evidence. She suggested It’s a lot more interesting to read about my ideas, regardless if they were ever actually made than it is to read about an artists fears of failing…because that much is obvious with such an ephemeral career.
So currently, as i’m trying to find a gap in research to do with my interest in art, motherhood and the body, find my critical stance, I will be writing about both on a parallel, trying to understand the crossovers, influences and perhaps implications each impose on the other.
I suppose I best start with the images I posted earlier. It had been a while since I had taken self portraits of my naked body, a while even since I had looked into a full length mirror. I wanted to understand how differently society sees you when you are pregnant. To start with myself, I see my body as stretched and distorted, almost unrecognisable from the original (shown below). In front of the camera, I felt awkward and embarrassed, even knowing I had full control over the images I produced.
I couldn’t help but be reminded of Francis bacons grotesque fleshy models as I stared at the raw, unedited material which drove me to photoshop, in an attempt to make them beautiful. I realised then that I will never be another Jo Spence (whose self portraits documented her fight with breast cancer) who allows themselves to be seen so vulnerable and perhaps even viscerally. Not if I stay in control of the camera anyway. With the images I seek to disrupt or complicate the image of the maternal but to do this, I need to firstly understand it. The problem with the images I produced is that, although some may be bordering on pornographic and so perhaps quite problematic, they are very objective. I’m too close to the subject, too careful of the aesthetics and too afraid of the public gaze. A recent critique opened my eyes on the matter at hand…Take the photographs, let loose with their form and just keep them, each work made doesn’t necessarily need to be made public. And secondly, let go of the camera, because if i push on with this need to control, I will eventually hit a brick wall. This advice struck home immediately as its what i’d already feared.
So as I coast through these last (hopefully) few days of pregnancy at snails pace, I’m handing the camera to my partner. I’m not sure what will come of this action, or if any of the material will be useable. But to me it makes sense to capture the moments of transitioning into motherhood; the labour, birth and first days with my co-dependant baby. Which I later hope to reflect on, inspiring new works.
Raspberry leaf control
I do think its true that as a society we are conditioned to believe we have control. Control over the decisions we make; the food we eat, clothes we wear, jobs we choose, family and friends, In fact the list is endless. Beyoncé, amongst others within pop culture, make us feel like we, as women, are strong, independent warriors. And I’m sure most of us would admit, we like it. Love it in fact. Because control is our power. It’s been the focus of my artistic career for the last 2 years, challenging claims of a male dominated visual culture; in the sense that it is all made for them. In my work I used my body to confront this, confident in my sexuality and sense of control and its ability to complicate and reverse these roles.
So these 9 months have been somewhat of a challenge to this. Physically, now that much is obvious. Yes pregnancy is a beautiful thing, I tell myself over and over. However inwardly, I have never felt so insecure and dare I say, even disgusted with my body. I’m speaking from a very aesthetic, superficial point of view after watching my body grow and distort until its almost unrecognisable. I used creams and oils to prevent stretchmark’s, tanning lotions to mask the purple-ish paleness of stretched skin. All attempts are feeble really, there are not ointments to control emotions, your body takes over and it knows what its doing. I’m overjoyed that it’s been able to grow my child without any problems. But It is a very strange feeling to become secondary to yourself. So what is control really? Currently I have little; my hormones have teamed up with my little daughter and they rule the roost.
Here at the end of term, we are supposed to write a birth plan, as if after 9 months of complete surrender, we can turn round and say, now, you listen to me baby, this is how it’s going to work. I’m thinking a beautiful calming water birth, around 3 hours in duration, that wasn’t nearly as horrendous as I thought. No doctors, forceps or any medical intervention of any kind. Oh, and my dignity still in tact. However, as hopeless as it may seem, I do dream of this situation where I can feel in control of my child’s entrance to the world. That’s why, despite little belief in its effects, I’m sat here drinking raspberry leaf tea and eating pineapple. Today may well be the day.
Nesting
I now have first hand experience to tell you that the nesting instincts I have so often read about, are in fact real. As I look around my reasonably spotless room, crumbs, marks and tiny smears appear as though hi lighted with a luminous yellow marker. Many times has my partner awoken to me lecturing the kittens for flicking their litter out of the tray, or worse are the days when I’ve stood, hoover in one hand, cloth in the other, waiting for the smallest crack in the eyelids so I can delegate his chores as if it were an emergency situation. But to my progesterone fuelled body, it is…because the living room, although hoovered yesterday, is a pigsty. And the kitchen floor, although scrubbed a mere hour ago, needs a mop. And I swear if I have to deal with one more nasty litter tray…Now, for those who have had the misfortune of lodging with me during my student days will agree that this behaviour is completely uncharacteristic of me..to say the least. Hard proof that the nesting instinct is a very real beast. All in preparation for my newest member, who will undoubtedly check the cracks behind the radiator, to arrive..and shit hits the fan, quite literally.
To be honest, perhaps nesting has its uses. Because for that short time, my mind is given a bit of respite from the constant nagging of the impending birth. Labour looms over my rounded body like a dark cloud, daring to rain. Every day I wake up with slight cramps and think to myself, well this it. Today’s the day. Wrong. Today isn’t, yesterday definitely wasn’t and next week I will still quite possibly be balancing my sketchbook on top of my oversized stomach, whilst the empty cot stands as a focal point in the room. This has to be one of the most frustrating, nerve wracking but yet exciting experiences of a woman’s life. It’s a calming before a storm..the house feels silent, empty. Time stands absolutely still as we all just wait for this monumental, life-changing event to begin.
So the days are long and quite lonely, as are the uncomfortable nights. I waddle to the university library, hoping for productivity, but mentally I’m drained most days. Of course I find moments where my creativity is handed back to me, and these are great bursts of energy and excitement over the possibilities. But should I relent and let myself melt into the furniture watching endless episodes on Netflix, tsunamis of quilt crash over me….I should be using this time before her arrival, researching, writing, filming..or I will fail.
It’s a battle which will only become more difficult when my beautiful co-dependant daughter is added to the mix, absorbing my time and energy. Being an artist and a mother, both requires time, effort and determination. It will be a balancing act on a very thin tightrope, I imagine I will not always get it right, but I honestly don’t want to fall. I love her already, my tiny stranger…whom I’m completely unprepared for really. Half of me is terrified every time any signs of labour crop up, the other is repeatedly bouncing on the exercise ball, willing to relieve the bowling ball pressure in my pelvis. But as much as you make hourly investigations into the size and shape of your bump or google every gloriously detailed symptom, the same result appears, she will come when she is ready….so carry on nesting, mother.
Nesting 