I am a painter who uses watercolor to personify my struggles and journey of my mental health. I started using paint as a form of journaling because I missed having a creative outlet to voice my inner turmoil…
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My first mothers did not have wombs. I have two original ancient mothers in this glittering world. They imparted wisdom to us when we were not yet real people. Their mythical bodies enliven the stone they rest in and watch by their grace this new generation. I carry my mother’s and grandmother’s eggs — their blood.
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Anonymous, Untitled, IVF placenta print with acrylic paint, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
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It’s been over twenty years now and with each passing year, the beginning of the story changes. New smells, sounds, and breezes emerge. Others get lost. Voices change and sunny days become cloudy. I had forgotten that one afternoon, when he met me at school and we walked to the zócalo, getting caught in a torrential summer downpour that soaked us to our underwear. My pale blue skirt, transparent and clinging to my thighs. How could I have forgotten that day?
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