works

Something magical happened with Madeleine. My feelings began to change. Where disgust and shame had just dominated, forgiveness gently stroked my cheek. The pictures became an embrace, although they had previously been an expression of my rejection. Her penetrating gaze became more loving.

Janine. One of the oldest works in this series. It was created as if from a memory of an encounter with her that never happened. A ‘beauty’ between plastic chairs in an Italian restaurant. Vulnerably delicate.

We scroll over shimmering beauty and perfection. Feel ourselves in contrast to it. Give up, let go, become free. Remain unfree. Or somewhere in between.

Ana reaches into her body. She tries to tear out what doesn't conform to the ideal of beauty. But there is resignation in her eyes. Letting go and finally becoming one with herself and all the flesh that belongs to her.

When being a woman* means being a body. Or not. If you fulfil the ideal. Or not. Whose ideal? Whose body? Mine? Yours?

And then you can't take it anymore. So you. Being and everyone in general. The looks that you cast and that bounce off you. Bounce back.

I show my teeth. To what speaks from the mirror. To what I probably am or should be, don't want to be, but have to be. It doesn't matter. I am. That should be enough.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Resignation sets in, but also finally the feeling. Or something similar. To be unattributable now.

Delicate and fragile. Bent and imperfect.

I'll cut myself loose. I'll tear it off.

I am somehow liberated. In a way, I no longer restrict myself. And in the end. And that's what counts. I can hide behind myself. Hide perfectly. And be comfortable for myself. A piece of wisdom that I am rediscovering for myself today.

I give up. Or not? In any case. And I'm sure of it. Or not? I'm here now. In my chaos. In my self.

Like in the spotlight. Not even alone with myself. Always with my terribly shameful thoughts. That are loud in my head.

Be as beautiful as a flower. As fragile as a vase. As prettily draped as a silk curtain. Or just leave it alone.

Yes, it cuts in. And we wear it anyway. Yes, I feel wrong. And I do it anyway. I did that. Let it go now. #fckpatriarchy

And that's supposed to be nice? I don't know. I don't feel it. I do feel something, but that's not it.