Nesting

Transitioning

I haven’t published in a while. I can’t fully explain why I turned my back on it, when writing comes so easily in the moment, but I can say that it is easy to surrender yourself to tiredness. My job was wearing me down over the last 2 months, shift by shift, I felt useless and worn out. My body was doing a brilliant job of catering for my daughter, but I was left drained. I’m nearing the end now. Just a few short weeks until I’m due. Full term is just around the corner and quite honestly, I can already smell the sweet melon notes of a Sauvignon blanc. I’d love to say my mind has been preoccupied with the beginnings of my masters course. And it has really given me drive and inspiration to make work. I feel like I can utilise these last few weeks, full of excitement, sheer panic and discomfort and channel them into something creative. But however engrossed I may be in my practice, it doesn’t stop the relentless thoughts and worries about my impending moment. The moment we’ve waited 9 months for. Where I, Rebecca farr, will push a baby out of my vagina.

And I know it is possible, that it is the most natural thing in the world, that women have been doing it for thousands of years. But that does not stop these thoughts from swimming round and round my head like the millions of sperm that put me in this position. I am scared. Absolutely. Moments of sheer terror wash over me regularly. One particular favourite of mine being at the labour and birth class I was directed to. To set the scene; inside a rather large but stuffy hospital room, adorned with beautiful images of newborns, smell of disinfectant in the air. And then 12 eager couples sat in a circle surrounding one knowledgable midwife. It was to be a 4 hour session that included detailed information about the process, stages and complications of labour, and a tour of the delivery suite. And if that wasn’t enough to turn your stomach, they even threw in real life blood-curdling screams from a woman in the throes of a contraction. After that, and the painstakingly detailed explanation of an episiotomy, I felt the blood drain from my face and out of my body…and I excused myself to go and practice some breathing sat on the toilet seat.
I did gain some useful information from the day, however I believe I may have felt more confident had I not gone. Absorbed the information from the comfort of my couch with a good old fashioned book.

Don’t get me wrong though. I do not spend all day sweating buckets as I dream of the impending doom. But pregnancy does take over your life, you become obsessed with it. Aware of every movement and pain, engrossed in medical terms splashed across online forums. So it is only natural to be absorbed into the niggling doubts and nerves, although I do manage to cast them aside in favour of dreams of a smooth labour; immersed in warm water, feeling calm and empowered, finally in control of my body once again. And of course, the incredible moment I will look into the eyes of my beautiful little daughter. I see her big eyes and dark locks of hair in my dreams. She’s the image of new beginnings, a gorgeous blank canvas waiting to absorb life. A life which will reflect my own.

I realise that my tiredness will undoubtedly squander my creativity, although I’m hoping that I can capture my experience over the next few weeks and beyond, because it really is unique. There are many times I have written but not published, feeling the need to censor my words before opening them to the public. I want to write about my practice, my ideas and thoughts alongside my journey into motherhood. I think that through this I can begin to make sense of how motherhood has changed my practice as an artist. So I will leave you with my current thoughts for my 2 year research path, subject and open to change.

I want to show that visual culture, namely contemporary art practices can disrupt the easy consumption of the female body as an object, to question the female body as an image so that we are not subject to the male gaze.

And so my starting point becomes the maternal body, an image which ruptures female sexuality.

How to be both
Last week I attended a discussion organised by an artist whose Doctoral research Enemies of Good Art is based upon the challenges one faces in an art world which is not so child friendly. I was clearly the youngest there, the only one expecting their first child. I kept quite quiet in the group, feeling inexperienced amongst the mothers of 2 or 3. What surprised me though, was that the majority of the group were all the primary care givers, the mothers, and so the first ones to give up or postpone their careers as artists. There was but one that commented on how her partner and her shared the duties, that they both made sacrifices.

I considered why I’d never thought about inequality in parenthood before. And then it hit me. My father became both my mother and my father when he had too. He absorbed both roles like he was born to do it, and raising us 5 was no easy task. Of course men can’t carry a child or breastfeed, but they can be as maternal as a woman.

So to me it wasn’t obvious that I would do everything. I never considered it. Perhaps I’m wrong to do so but I believe it should be equal. I expect him to wake up to night feeds, change nappies, help with school work and even take her to school. Im still extremely focused on my career path because I don’t believe I will want to give it up. I don’t want to trade in my soul for my daughter, hand in the keys to my independence and surrender each day to my house wife duties. I’d be happy to share the maternity leave, if that’s what he wanted. He should be able to have that time to bond with his child. As pretty as I may look in an apron and plastic gloves, I don’t agree with these roles we’ve been assigned.

I admire my father. Even through the mistakes and aggravation at times, I do believe that he is an incredible father. And the older I get I realise the sacrifices he made for us throughout his life, and I see how I would do the same if I had too. Although I’m hoping it will never come to that. I loved my childhood for the most parts, and what made it so good were my siblings. However, 5 children don’t come for free. And I watched them struggle, I still watch him now. And I only wish I could fix it. Repay him for everything. So I hope one day I’m in a position to.

So I plan to push forward with my career. Juggling a baby and a masters thesis is a daunting thought at the moment and I suspect I will not get through it without a bit of blood, sweat and tears. But I hope to tackle this supposed child discriminating art world. I suspect there will be times when I am cast away, canvas first, from many gallery institutions as soon as the term baby leaves my lips…but then that’s all the more reason to keep making work. I know I would never of chosen success over a family if I had to make such a decision, perhaps I was naïve, but I never really thought I’d have to choose. .

Skeletons

She made a lot of sense the other day. Although she’s my sister and so her loyalty is tied to me and not him, I believe she would tell me if I was in the wrong. But her reaction echoed my frustrations. Well his priorities and loyalties should lie with me, I’m carrying his baby. And I’m the one he loves. It’s sad when a relationship ends. I know it well enough myself. But once you make that decision to move on, you can’t go back. I don’t regret any of my life decisions so far. I accept that each and every part of my past has changed and formed the way I am now, but I don’t believe in dwelling in it. I love him. And had one of my own skeletons come up from my past to question my present, I wouldn’t of entertained it. However, I have a feeling that such a situation would never arise, there isn’t any reason for it and I think most of us understand the boundaries.

Perhaps you could say it’s more a reflection of myself, that pregnancy vulnerability (if that is such a thing) has taken over and is slowly wearing away my confidence and trust. Of course you are vulnerable when you’re pregnant though. As much as people may say otherwise, I can’t imagine anyone wants to do this alone. And let’s be honest, I’m currently not the most attractive fish in the sea, even with the bigger breasts. I really believe that this is the biggest change any relationship can go through, and perhaps the most difficult. I don’t know if it makes a difference once you are happily married and impatiently awaiting the arrival of your planned kin. But I doubt even that can prepare you for such a test. My aunties words echo through my head…there will be some days when you just want to strangle him.

Truth is that I am not ready to say goodbye completely to a carefree, fun relationship. And by the looks of it, neither is he. I want to stay in love. And I do hope that that is not impossible amidst a sea of sick and nappies. As I’m sat on a train, I hear a couple discussing their children. Usual things like school, behaviour and dinner. But all the while, I noticed neither of them had anything else to talk about. And I wanted to ask..don’t you still matter? Or is that it now.

I’m never going to let myself go to motherhood completely, I’m my own person not just a mother. I’ll never be one to adorn a polo necked woolly jumper and tracksuits in the school grounds. And I’m making a pact now to always do my makeup…even if I have to fasten my baby to my chest in order to do so. I will also shower at least once a day…and wash my hair every other. I always loved to watch my mother getting ready. And I always admired her beauty. She owned hoards of makeup, clothes and hair products, which I loved to borrow. Everything I know today about contour lines and eyebrows I learned from her. She was the worst influence shopping, and spent far too much on possessions..which in turn taught me not to. Again I’m talking superficially. But all of these things make me feel myself. And if I manage to retain myself throughout the years, give myself the attention I deserve, then I can also give that to my relationship.

The Midwife

She arrived on the 5^th November 1965, the youngest girl of 3 born to a reasonably wealthy family. Giving themselves to religion, they were traditional churchgoers with many values and morals.

And that part of the story stops there. Because I came into her life 26 years later. And although I’ve gathered enough information over the years to piece together her story from childhood, I’d rather tell it from now, reflecting on my own experience whilst trying to make sense of it all.

*

I remember when I was younger, I would sit halfway down the stairs and watch her getting ready of a morning, wishing she could take me with her. And again when I was even younger, I became a permanent accessory to her leg, never wanting to let go.

I started the eulogy with attempted humour, I guess it was to soften the impact of what I was doing. A surreal moment watching her encased in a well carved wooden case, knowing that the woman inside was now just an empty shell packed in with some of her possessions; including the two inhalers she could never have lived without. The priest muttered words that had little meaning to me. The hymns that were sung were equally meaningless, as they would have been to her. She hated church.

The only part that mattered was ours. I spoke as if she could hear me, telling her how strong she was and that she would in some way live on through her 5 children. And I meant it. But I was also angry. Because she left us. Is it not selfish to give up on life and give yourself to the unknown serenity of death. Sometimes I think yes. Particularly when I need her. And so do they.
I’m not their mother, but I love them like children. And it hurt me more to watch them cry for her.

So it takes a long time to get over losing your mother. To some extent you never do. And people tell you that you’re strong for coping, when actually you have no other choice. And I would be lying if I told you that life doesn’t go on without her. You pick up the pieces and you move on. You remember her of course. But in time you don’t think of her everyday, you let her go. And you have to.

I do, however still think about what I’d say if I could see her once more. I imagine her healthy and glowing, beautiful blonde hair and even the eczema mark in the palm of her hand. Perhaps now I’d just tell her that I forgive her, for everything. And that I love her.

I remember we once talked about when I was much older and had my own baby’s, she would deliver them. I thought the idea was horrid at the time. But she should have been my midwife. No other will compare.

Cat Lady

I’ve adopted a kitten. Now I feel like one, middle-aged maternal cat lady. It wasn’t my fault really. I fell for his piercing green eyes and fluffy black coat. I had thought about a pet, It’s nice to have your child grow up with an animal, I did. However after much debate about room in the house or whether it’s wrong to give greedy breeders tons of cash for an inbred pedigree, we had to rule out the dog for now. Then one accidental cat pregnancy later, my sister bundles a little ball of fur in my hands and that’s it. Fate.

I’ve never had a kitten before, and so far it’s going well, he’s semi-toilet trained, only a few wee-stained bed sheets. And very cuddly when he’s sleepy, although I have already resigned to the fact my nice new furniture will look more shabby than chic after a few weeks. I guess its good preparation for when my freshly painted walls will make the perfect canvas for my child. Like mother like daughter.

For my more serious part of my blog I wanted to open with a question. At what point can you call it a life? I racked my brain for the answer to this for months. Is it down to a persons morals or ethics? Or should science be the one to tell us. Perhaps it’s the moment the heart first beats, or when the embryo becomes a foetus. Whatever the answer may be, it’s something that many before me will have queried.

Regardless of how unexpected she was, I will never love my daughter any less than if I had strategically planned each and every time around my ovulation, praying that I wouldn’t receive my monthly gift from nature. Because at the time I did want it. And after 5 days, my waiting turned into sheer panic. However, now I am faced with a horrible sickening feeling whenever I imagine what could have been. I’m also very glad I didn’t have to go through that pain-staking period of ‘trying’ for a baby.

So now here I am, drowning in baby-grows and breastfeeding information. Of which promote breastfeeding as being extremely beneficial to both mother and child, giving the baby the best possible start in life, helps the mother lose weight and get this, even decreases your chances of cancer. Brilliant. Why doesn’t everyone do it? Well inside information tells me that it can be very difficult to start with, not to mention incredibly painful as your sensitive nipples dry, crack and bleed. I’d rather be prepared with the truth now, pre-exhaustion and lactation though and yes, I’m still going to give it the best go I can. On top of this I’ve been having slight panic attacks whenever I look at the prices of prams, cots, car seats (not that I have a car but apparently I still need it) and all the other gadgets and gismos you need to look after a human. But apart from that, I am happy to say that my face hasn’t ballooned and nor have my feet yet so it’s so far so good on the pregnancy front.

Two Mirrors

I feel her more strongly now. I was taken by surprise the other night as I rested my hand on my stomach only to feel her little jabs under my skin. It’s an incredible and very unique feeling, one that began as if someone was blowing bubbles into my stomach like a milkshake and has now developed into a kind of shifting feeling, if you can imagine a pair of hands inside, moving and playing with your stomach like dough. Then comes the surprisingly strong pangs as I’m settling down to rest my weary head. Sadly for my partner, she immediately stops whenever he puts his hands on my stomach.

I bought a new book on pregnancy and motherhood, entitled Bumpology. It basically deals with the hundreds of questions and myths that rattle through any pregnant women’s brain daily. I bought it really because as each new difficulty arises, physically and mentally, where do I (and many like me) turn? Of course, good old Google…My latest query was to see if it was normal to get severe cramp in your bum whilst pregnant, a sensation I had never experienced prior. But unfortunately Google is a huge hypochondriac and so I had to find another vice. Despite the name though, the book is actually quite scientific and gives some very detailed answers to uncertain subjects. It’s also nice to know that you’re not alone with your insane ponderings and deliberations.

What the book cannot help me with however, is another part of my life which has been equally affected by my child, my artistic practice. Perhaps some of you are already familiar with my work that induces a strong understanding of the political status of the female body and the role of the artist’s ability to control, engage and impose narrative and perceptions on the viewer. It’s about enabling people to stop and question the female body as an image. An image many of us see on a daily basis thanks to the media. Originally I talked and wrote about differences dwindling between men and women as more women and artists take control of their work, especially within moving image. And so becomes the possibility to shift some of this objectivity, to alter power structures if you like. But as the body that stares at me through the mirror everyday continues to change, I’m beginning to revise this. I’m trying to work out what is different now as I am growing new life inside me. How this changes the way I appear on screen. And even my capabilities. Because this is in fact the biggest difference between men and women, the thing that will always separate us. And so in my previous work, sexuality was my power, and I used it to my advantage creating sensual video works where my words collided with the sexual image on screen. But now the mirrors have changed, and so have my viewers perceptions. I realise that my work was ephemeral, and so now it must also travel with me on this transition into motherhood and who knows where this might lead.

My writing has been slow recently because at the moment I’m not glowing. Not even a little bit. My skin appears to have developed scales, dry and peeling, and the cold that’s zapped through my body is leaving me in a mangled mess of self pity and snot. I’m also reliving the story of the princess and the pea in which my wonderful memory foam mattress feels like its made of stone and I can feel every last crumb that finds its way inside the bed.

Whilst you read my next more heart-felt post, just imagine that I am currently sat here stuffing a tasteless peanut butter flavoured ice cream down my throat, whilst staring in disgust at its immediate appearance on my hips and thighs….Oh the joys of growing my little sprog.

 

The Man behind the Camera

There are moments when I just want to strangle him. All sense is replaced by blind frustration and anger, and of course, it’s all his fault. Then the mist fades and he’s an absolute God in my eyes, and I’m sorry.

I realise that my writings so far have revolved purely around my baby and I or my art, my baby and I. It’s seemingly obvious to state that I wouldn’t be in this situation without him. But nor could I go through this transition without him either. There are many books about pregnancy, even ones written by men for men. Pregnancy can leave a women so self-absorbed, you’re the one who bears and births the child, goes through the pains and sickness and so he couldn’t possible understand how tired your are or what you are going through. He’s the dependable chair, or shopping trolley, or whatever else it is that you need for support. What the books fail to mention is that he is shitting his pants a whole lot more than you. That no he’s not carrying the baby, so he doesn’t have that instant bond or connection. And that the baby at this point, is just an abstract idea to him. He is aware that your body is changing and he is going to have to watch you go through what could be a terribly traumatic ordeal at the birth and he is also aware that his life is about to change dramatically. But it’s actually quite difficult to imagine the thoughts and worries streaming through his mind whilst you nag, complain and moan about every grumble, heart burn and headache, cry at every new blemish on your body, or laugh at every tiny wiggle and kick that he can’t yet see or feel. So despite my useless screams at the man who’s gone out and drowned his worries in many a beer, I do try to understand the need to get away from it sometimes. From me and my disgustingly snotty nose.

At the moment he’s not my husband, but he’s my partner, my best friend and the father of my child. He’s someone that supports my art without probably ever understanding my ideas thoroughly or my reasons why. He’s someone that dropped his life as he knew it to follow me across the world, to an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar language and people to set up a home there. Then followed me back when we needed to. He’s the only man I’ve relinquished control with, given him my camera and taken a step back. And so he’s the only one I’d want by my side to bring our child into the world.

Which is a good job really, as it’s a bit late to take a U-turn now. And so I must move onwards and outwards. Waddling down the long path into motherhood.

And as you can imagine, I did finish that (half) tub of ice cream.

First trimester

It’s my seventh week. I’ve seen her heart beating on the screen, a tiny grey smudge, the size of a blueberry, contracting twice as fast as my own, sending blood coursing through her very partially formed body.

The Doctor gave me some gifts. One of them contained a very small bottle. It fascinated me.

You read through countless online forums, telling you what your feeling or should be feeling, giving you great details about the maintenance work inside your uterus. I read about the surge of hormones flowing through my body causing my emotional highs and lows. That my uterus must have doubled in size by now, the reason for the persistent cramps. That the aversions to certain foods and smells that send my stomach into overdrive, and me running to the toilet are perfectly normal and lucky for me they should disappear within 6 long weeks.

And so how do you feel?

Still disbelief, that there’s a life forming deep inside you. A life, which will grow with morals, opinions and knowledge.

Panic, that you will do something wrong. Mostly before the birth, because you can’t begin to comprehend the amount of possibilities that can happen after. Everyone has conflicting advice; what you can and can’t eat, how much exercise you should do. Can I still run? Or am I still allowed to even carry my backpack? The what-is-going-on-inside-my-body worry. For some wonderful moments, I feel elated. That I am so able to bring life into the world, a choice that so many do not have. For the other moments. I feel my whole world crashing down around me and I’m just standing there watching, unable to change anything. Everything you envisioned for yourself, everything you planned. The surge of emotions and thoughts swirling around your head. I feel the loss of control, the worries for money, security. Being alone.

But then I realise that’s impossible now, and actually, that’s the very thought that scares me. But, above all, I feel love, a very deep emotional love for her. A maternal instinct perhaps. I feel you’re already programmed to love your child. I think back to how she loved me. The reason why, she never left, not really.

It’s very easy to think now, how different my life could have been had I not come to Germany, or had I not met him. And you think about these things because you know now, that your options and choices are more refined. You don’t wish it to be different though. You just think about it.

And I look at my body, pick at the imperfections. It’s very hard not too. Perhaps I will look back in 20 years and think how stupid I was to criticise. And I keep trying to imagine my stomach expanding. What will this do to me? How much will my body change? Is it possible to get it back to how it was? What will I think of myself? Will I start to hate mirrors? Catch a glimpse of myself in the shower and feel a twinge of sadness and grief for my former body? Or will I revel in the beauty of child bearing and feel confident in my less-than-perfect body? Sadly these are just some of the questions circling around my head daily.

Now when your looking at my picture, you’re looking at my stomach aren’t you. Your also trying to imagine the changes that will take place. You imagine that the soft smooth skin across my torso will bear the strains of the swelling. That the elasticity will fade along with any outline of tone and muscle. You’re looking to see if my nipples have darkened, as the breasts prepare to produce milk. But your imagining that my breasts, that sit relatively high upon my chest, will migrate further south after a few months of feeding her. And you imagine the lines forming on my brow and under my eyes, after months and years of worry and lack of sleep. Or Perhaps now, you feel the tiniest twinges of guilt, for first skipping my words to look at the photograph. To project your feelings of desire upon my naked skin, before realising that these feelings are projected, not only onto myself, but onto a very tiny, helpless version of her.

You may say, well frankly this is all superficial. And yes, you are right. But, I can’t help but worry. It was these thoughts and feelings; the many doubts and lowered self esteem which led to her leaving this world so early the first time. She’s a part of me in more than one way. She is my mine as I am hers. Perhaps our paths were destined to be the same. Perhaps I must learn from her mistakes if I have any chance of reaching Nirvana. But perhaps I am destined to make those very same mistakes. The cycle will forever go on. Maybe that’s okay though, as it means she could be my mother again.