This series came to life and develops as a response to pain caused by the split between two self-concepts: “I artist” and “I mother”. It is also an attempt to answer the questions regarding maternity, but in a social context, not biological. It is an endeavor to reconcile myself with contradictions brought up by responsibility in raising a new human being. Or maybe it is only a matter of spotting these contradictions, maybe this is enough.
The image of my child is certainly not my child. I wonder why it is so hard to destroy it just like that. Why, while holding the camera in my hands, I am able to do whatever I want with portrayals of other kids, but at the same time in some strange ways my daughter stays untouchable. I would like to work with her just the way I work with others. Whatever comes to my mind always ends up the same way. Oh! What a lovely child on this photo, how sweet her feet are, such a biiig eyes… I feel sick. The outcome is almost always the same, looks like many pictures from millions of web galleries under the topic “children”. How embarrassing. Despite this inner blockade, I open the program in which we are able to do everything and I start to operate. First - the complexion - it doesn’t have to be so inhumanly pale like porcelain. Eyes with dark rings around them? Why not. Maybe something more? Something further? How to break the restraints and “uglify” much more? Not sure what’s the point of it, but I feel it’s necessary, it’s my only hope. Looks horrible. I’m scared. I close the file quickly trying not to save the changes by any chance. I want to break free from the scheme of portrayal, but something tells me that in these case the connection between me and the model is impossible to circumvent. Who am I trying to deceive? Myself. I am too smart, there must be another way. I must be more imaginative if I want to run away from these millions of beautiful images on the web. Or maybe it would be good to give up. To go with the flow, with stylization, smoothing, beautifying... And in the end? There must be a boundary somewhere. To go through the barriers with impetus. The dream of an artist. The symbol of that certain artificiality – miniaturized, unrealistically built little woman made of plastic, assembled thousands of kilometers away by other little hands – this is my passkey. I don’t have to fight anymore. I’m using it effortless, exploiting longings and my childhood dreams. I surrender completely, piece by piece…