This work embraces fragmentation in form and feeling. Made from ripped, refined, edited, cut, torn, rubbed, slapped, and beaten – then stitched back together and suspended on the wall. Invisible string holds it tight. That tension mirrors the internal push and pull I’ve felt while making this work: being a mother, being an artist.

Tracey Emin said “There are good artists that have children. Of course there are. They are called men.” 

That line sticks. It echoes in my head even though I reject it. It’s hard to ignore words from someone you admire.

The cutting made me uncomfortable. The stitching is a nod to “women’s work.” The invisible thread both literally and metaphorically. A reminder of the invisible labour so many of us carry. Brick wall textures act as a defence. Bubble wrap marks speak of protection. Opposite ends of the same impulse – to stay safe.

And beneath some of it, my daughter’s painting. A symbol of hope, innocence, fun, and laughter. A quiet prayer that she’ll never find herself trapped in something abusive or patriarchal. That her life might be different. 

This piece sprawls across the wall, confronting the viewer. It resists the polished and expected in art and life. It offers a landscape that refuses to apologise.