5. “You need to be quiet.”
(Part 5 of 5 of the “Mirror, mirror” series)
The woman stood back to examine the set of black and white images taped onto the wall. She took a black pen and stepped forward to circle an area – the contrast wasn't dramatic enough, the pores on the skin weren’t visible - she will play with the levels to really emphasize the texture. She pondered the six self-portraits in turn.
In the first image the woman pulls up her nose to show the long hairs inside her nostrils, some clustered together, glued with mucus. Her nose tip is squished causing the skin to ridge and her crow's feet to pop. Her lower lip is pulled down exposing her crooked teeth. A silvery trail of spit is traced across the black chasm of her mouth to her protruding tongue.
“filteredbody vagina” (2021), one of a series of 6 photographic self-portraits
She had taught her child to speak with that tongue.
The second is focussed on her feet, one on top of the other. The nail varnish is chipped, showing ridged and thickened nails. The whorls on one toe are bright white – dead skin in the shadows. There are dark, long hairs on each toe, and tiny black speckles of dirt are trapped in the wrinkles and crevices.
She had taught her child to walk with those feet.
The third is of her breasts, each clasped by a hand, the grip tight enough to cause deep pools of shadow in the dense flesh. Their unevenness is exaggerated, one pulled high and the other tugged low.
She had fed her child with those breasts.
The fourth is of her buttocks, her hands pressed against them to emphasise the fleshy dints of cellulite, the goose-flesh skin marked with pimples, the saddlebags under the cheeks.
She had rocked her child to sleep with those strong muscles.
The fifth is of her tummy, her fingers drilling into the flesh, forcing the loose skin to ripple and gather in the centre.
She had carried her child in that tummy.
The last image… the last is of her vagina. She grasps a labium in each hand, pulling them apart to expose the inner hood. Her pubic hair is wild and unshaven. There is a creamy discharge visible on the skin. This image… this image made her pause. It felt to her like the root of the shame that she had worked so hard to shed. She thought hard about how much she was willing to reveal. The external organ itself didn’t matter to her, she was far past feeling disgust at her own flesh and hair. But the inner part, the fluid? What did that say? The core of her vulnerability rested there. How could she expose that?
That evening she bathed her daughter and wrapped her in a warm towel. Her child giggled and wriggled free; her plump toddler body streaked down the corridor to her parent's bedroom where she clambered onto the bed. The child shrieked with delight as she jumped up and down, bouncing higher and higher. The woman followed the sounds and stood in the doorway laughing. She watched her child, this little woman, so unafraid of her body, of her physicality. There was no shame here for the little woman. Only self-pride. Pride in her strength, pride in her ability, pride in her bravery. And joy.
The woman had thought she had been making her self-portraits to teach her child to witness a woman's body in its natural state. No judgment, no disgust, no fear. Just glory in its miraculous function. She hadn't realised, this whole time, it was her child who was teaching her.
A woman creates a pearl, and she holds it in the palm of her hand,
When she gazes into its surface, she sees a more perfect version of herself,
All marks of time and pain smoothed away.
But the pearl becomes too big to hold and rolls away from her
It seeks the light but attracts the dark, and
It can't yet differentiate between the two.
The woman runs after the pearl,
trying to prevent chips and cracks,
desperately polishing off scuffs and dirt from its pure veneer.
But the pearl changes shape,
and there are ridges and dips in its surface,
that cast the light in beautiful and mysterious ways.
The woman looks for her reflection,
and sometimes it's as clear as day
but mostly, it's so changed that an entirely new gaze meets hers.
My child, you were my rebirth, the golden adhesive with which I completed my own Kintsugi. How much responsibility of repair I rested on your little shoulders. You and your ever-loving father leashed under a yoke of love and loyalty. I must not let you bear my load. You were not made to be a draught horse, nor will I let the world turn you into a brood mare. You are an unbroken mustang, and I will watch the wind rip through your mane and the light catch the wildness of your eye as you gallop towards adventure. Even though I am afraid for you, even though I know the weight of shame and disgust cast on our sex which I have tried so hard to shield you from. You are so open, and we have encouraged you to embrace the new with wide arms. I try to prepare myself for the pain you will face knowing each will be a whiplash to my own heart. But I must stand aside and let the world touch you, despite my fears, so you, glorious you, can touch it back.
