Two and a half years ago, a fibroid the size of a fist was found in a complicated area of my uterus. It took 5 hysteroscopies to defeat it, as halfway through the process it returned to its original size and we had to start over.
Those 2 years were filled with intense physical pain, ultrasounds, lots of anesthesia, operating rooms, pads, and hormones; among other things. I had to overcome it somehow, so I convinced myself and those around me that everything was fine, that I would soon overcome it and could start the journey to motherhood.
Over time, I realized there was no space for emotional pain. I had covered up the fear, helplessness, insecurity, uncertainty, loneliness; all those wounds that still hurt today.
This suppressed hysteria, which had no time to heal, is hanging on these walls.
Unintentionally, I went from my perfectly methodical and precise paintings, to creating these ink and water forms that danced on the paper. Each one was different, they looked very visceral, and I couldn’t control them, like the fibroid. What I could direct, though, was the thread, sewing scars that speak for me, for my pain.
Each piece has two faces: On the front, the scars are thought out, designed, seemingly healed, but suppressed. What I showed during these years, my mask.
On the back, the threads don’t follow any pattern, they’re tangled and intertwined, they’re chaos. It defines what my appearance hid, my internal struggle, and the wounds that still haven’t healed.
