I'm writing this sat on my driveway in my car while my baby naps in the seat behind me. I'm desperate for a coffee and impatient to get going with the next part of the day (unpacking the shop, playing with toys, answering emails, lunch followed by a nap). A conversation I had with a friend on the school run is also humming in the background of my mind. It left me faintly panicked and I’m still not quite sure why.
Her daughter is a month older than mine and, after we swapped the latest milestones reached, we both agreed huge chunks of the last year have seemingly vanished. Gaping holes in time between having tiny newborns and our now almost-toddlers. Where had all that time we thought we'd have to fill gone? What about all those possible playdates and coffees with little babies? Gone. All of gone.
Thinking about time and how unfair it feels hurts my head and my heart. So I'm distracting myself by scrolling back through my camera roll as I sit on my driveway. Actually, it's not a distraction. It's my pathetic attempt to exert mastery over time and memory. I maintain this huge digital archive as preservation, as proof. I can travel back and see that yes, I did once have a four-month old and yes, plenty did happen. All is not lost and neither am I.
Here we were. And here we are.
And then, I can look back further. Yes, look, there I am living a different life. A different me. And different time. Sometimes that hurts too, a dull ache in my heart and flutter of panic in my stomach. All that time. Gone. I’m nostalgic and I’m hungry for more. All of it. Again.
Roland Barthes described photography as the “stupefying evidence” of “this is how it was.”1
What we have is a new space-time category: spatial immediacy and temporal anteriority, the photograph being an illogical conjunction between the here-now and the there-then.2
For him, this paradox frustrates the photograph’s ability to function as either a true presence or comforting illusion, but it does offer explanation for the dull ache of nostalgia. These photographs make everything feel very big and very small all at once. Expansive and restrictive.
And, as I scroll, I can't help but notice there I am again and again, peering into the camera between catalogues of ancient temples and then, much later, hundreds of photos of my bonny babies. Selfies of me beneath my children or alone and ghostly in red lipstick. Images taken not to share, but to document. An archive. A reclamation. A fight against time.
I want to remember that I am visible
My earliest experiences of first-time motherhood was faceless. For the first five days of my son’s life I don’t ever remember looking at my own face. And any physical sensation was entirely cantered on the fullness in my breasts, the emptiness of my stomach, and the bruising just below. Even when we returned home and I found time to glance in the mirror, my own face had gone, replaced by that of my son.
One of the clearest memories of those days is brushing my teeth, one hand gripping the sink in an effort to stay upright, and staring wide-eyed at a reflection which was certainly not my own. My features had disappeared and in their place was my baby’s face, all big eyes and soft squirrel cheeks. I had experienced similar many years before, during blissful and somewhat therapeutic nights with magical mushrooms. But back then, it was still always MY face that looked back at me. Now, leaning forward, putting all my weight onto the sink, his features remained superimposed over mine. Even my face had been given over to him. It was an erasure of self.
Photos from that time remind me I was still there, quietly dissolving and reconfiguring.
Selfie mode provides a critical distance that opens space for reflection, grief, celebration. There is my child against the softness of my tummy. There is her head against my cheek, beneath my black-ringed eyes. There is her elder sibling, bursting into the frame and obliterating me from the scene.
There is proof of life.
Picturing Mother
There are still a handful of spaces left on my upcoming workshop: Picturing Mother.
Join me over four workshops that blend historical context, visual examples, and personal reflection to examine the diverse ways in which motherhood has been portrayed and perceived. We will analyse iconic artworks, uncover some of the societal and cultural forces that shaped these representations, and gain insights into the changing roles and expectations of mothers/ carers throughout history.
This workshop series is ideal for anyone interested in art history, cultural studies, or personal exploration of motherhood, whether as a figure in your life, a role you inhabit, or an idea that resonates with you.
The course starts on 2nd October and runs for four weeks. We will meet on Zoom and each session will be recorded.
Barthes, Roland. “Rhetoric of the Image.” In Classic Essays on Photography, edited by Alan
Trachtenberg, 269-85. New Haven, CT: Leete’s Island, 1980, p.278.
Ibid.