For 12 minutes I let people see the ugliest parts of myself, my deepest desires and biggest fears, the emotional fiber of a complex being live right in front of your eyes.

The grief that is typically portrayed in media is the big dramatic moments, but it is really much more mundane than that. Doing the dishes and remembering that moment you shared, or walking into a coffee shop and randomly smelling her perfume, or seeing someone that you swear could be her. It never goes away. It just sort of gets sewn into your life in subtle ways that you learn to live with and even sometimes love because it is the only way they continue to live on. 

This image of Chiao-Ping’s mother literally being projected onto her body sets the tone for the work to come. It brings up a question I find myself grappling with often – what parts of my mother are projected onto me? This specific image of Li Chiao-Ping, gently and tactfully expanding the sheet, has me reckoning with how much of this projection of my mother is involuntary versus an active choice to let her live on through me.

remember when i mentioned that the audience itself would become as much a part of the effort? well, around this point is when i noticed this layer to the work. in front of me, a child lays in her mothers lap and i am reminded of the effort of motherhood. at the top of the hill, a girl is attempting tightrope. as she leaves the rope, i think of the effort it takes to walk away. my back hurts from being in a seated position and my ass is soggy from the wet grass below it. i can’t help but ponder on all the effort it took for me to be here, now. in a new state with a new job navigating the horrible highway systems of north carolina that led me to this very show. to my right, a boy is playing cards.