My body is not a statement. It's clay, shaped by my own experiences, by my own choices, stitched tougher by pain of giving birth to a new life, embroidered with hopes, dreams, veins and arteries. If it's a temple, then I worship none other than Demeter herself. Generous and fertile. Maybe even a bit too fertile, but non the less - honest in her ways. And that is exactly what brought me to the project. Pursuit of truth, not so much happiness. I always had complicated relationships with truth, to say the least. And I still know how to trick myself and others, but as a very close friend of mine said - truth is liberating. It strips away the necessity to pretend, to put on a show. My smoke and mirrors where out there for too long, even I believe they're real. And to love myself, to accept my wide hips, my stretch marks, my wrinkles, my skin, me, a woman and a mother, just like one's before me, not a girl with wind in her hair, constantly moving forwards, just because it's too scary to look back - I shouldn't hide them. Illusions are perfect and there for dead from the start. But I'm alive. Dressed in nothing, but the light.
