My grandmother was obsessed with mirrors; old, stained, cracked and useless mirrors. I clearly envisage her posing in front of them, tipping her chin upwards, sucking in her cheeks to enhance the arch of her infamous bone structure surrounding them, gazing seductively at her reflection, turning slowly and fixing the glance as she moved away from her framed mirage. As I grew up and became a mother I started to reflect upon my own appearance. A strong urge to escape the cast mold and take on a venture back to my true self came forth. I knew some of the key answers were hidden within that image; her self-portrait. Behind the foetal membrane of milk- washed silver and cracks. Behind the veil. And the mirrors became my mediums, my witnesses.
When I am the object to my own photography I establish a distance between myself and the lens, by the means of a secondary reflection surface or long exposures, to focus on the emotions that arise rather than my own appearance, allowing me to be honest in conducting my e-motional x-raying.
In exploring myself as a photographic territory I aim to disclose hidden aspects of my own female lineage and archetypes in womanhood. I experience foremothers permeating the imagery and I clearly see myself as a result of inheritance and - what I in lack of other words call - The original Sin, from which I derive.
A reoccurring theme I seem to encounter in the attempt of breaking free of family bound patterns is the connection between courage and mercy, and I have come to regard the smallest of successes as quantum leaps.