This is a collection of five blogs I wrote while re-making my live art performance THE BUTTER PIECE. My writing is joined by five pieces from other artists whose work involves, or is about, the body. It’s an insight into the artistic process but also a reflection on themes that come up from living in our skin – being seen, looking and being looked at, queerness, shame, ageing, change and materiality.
The guest writers are: Orrow Amy Bell, Jade Blackstock, Gillian Dyson, Ursula Martinez & Holly Revell. It was edited by Jodean Sumner and features drawings by Gillian and photographs from Coralie Datta and Matt Rogers.
This is one of a series of writings that reflect on my journey toward re-making a performance art work called ‘The Butter Piece’. I first made it in 2011 and I’m revisiting it now a decade later.
I mentally prepared before comparing pictures of me ten years ago and now.
It wasn’t enough.
I found it really difficult, especially looking at myself from the back – and I’d always considered my back one of my best features. I guess we look at our fronts more so the rear view image was more shocking.
I knew I would look older but I hadn’t thought about what ‘older’ translated to. It was less about wrinkles and more about shape. The shape of me is different in space – sturdier and more irregular. I have swellings and indentations in places that used to be smooth – hills and valleys instead of plains. Or perhaps it’s the same landscape after ecological change so the undulations and river beds have become more epic.
Weight is definitely a part of what I see, and I expected this, but what I find repulsive is where I have the heavy, dimply, ballast of my mum.
I have to do some work on this…
Why do I find features of my mother undesirable – is it because of her weight or her age?
Is it because of the relationship, her being my parent, or would it be the same with any older, or well upholstered, woman?
I think it is the relationship and lack of examples.
When I was a young the only women’s bodies I saw were those in magazines, TV and film or my mother. Such a fail-fail paradox. On one hand aspirational fantasies that I was physiologically programmed to never attain. On the other an inescapable destiny that I was desperate to individuate from. Where were the alternatives? Where were they then and where are they now?
As an adult I realise that my mum always looked great for her age. A certain amount of weight suited her and contributed to her youthfulness.
I believe I have become more attractive as I have gotten older. Or maybe I have shifted my parameters of beauty. My skin is increasingly porous. More of who I am comes through. The inner informing the outer instead of the other way around.
I look more like me and this ‘me’ is a product of my nature, my nurture and the congruence of myself.
