‚Blurred Lines’ is a reclamation of womanhood. Smudging the lines of convention, we ask the question, ‚what makes a woman?‘ If you have an exact answer, you’re missing the point.
ART EXHIBITION
BLURRED LINES
Monica Mills
9/9/22 – 6/11/22
Space Žitná 7, Prague 1
What makes a woman?
In his book Ways of Seeing John Berger claimed that ‘men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at.’ Every woman knows what it is like to be consumed by the world we live in. There are a million different ways that women respond to our objectification. There are women who exemplify the archetypal feminine, who nurture and provide and sustain for others. There are women who defy any notion of a traditional role, who create change, and demand results. There are women who ignore the pressures of society, who work at their own pace, finding what makes them tick. There are women who have attempted all of the above, and more, just to find their voice in a world that diminishes what women can do. We have to blur the lines of convention, creating a womanhood that envelops and includes all aspects, all of our differences, everything that makes us powerful.
What makes a woman?
Whatever you want.
The women in these paintings have actively asked to be seen, to be watched, to be looked upon and consumed by you, the spectator. The subtlety acknowledges the myriad of facets needed to be a woman. There is no right way to be a woman – only preconceived notions perpetuated by a patriarchal society. It is for women to decide who they are, as individuals, and collectively. These paintings obscure the definition of woman. Erasing expectations, blurring boundaries, rubbing out absolutes as womanhood is reclaimed by women. Each painting contains a specific moment of a personal narrative where self-acceptance and individual truth finally becomes more important than other people’s feelings and society’s assumptions.
What makes a woman?
You do.
A breast that gives life, sustenance, is all that makes sense to tiny fingers that grapple for a nipple secreting manna,
Those raw areolae no longer belong to the body that grew them, loved them, massaged them, but instead are focused, purposed for new life.
Years later and the dynamics change, day to night, father friend and mother foe, that tiny life no longer belongs to you,
A membrane of humanity separates you, no longer does the invisible umbilical cord create a relationship of necessity, every day the barrier increases.
Never will the boundary feel so vast as when adolescence strikes.
The stripping of life. The ripping of dependence. An iceberg shaft splitting in two. A continental rift of egotistical proportions.
Do not engage.
But the love still exists, transformational possessiveness to cataclysmic butterflies beating against a heart fallen in love for the first time.
Tears shed, doors slammed, journals held and hearts poured out through ink scrawled on pages eventually too embarrassing to be reread.
Nothing else matters but the single emotion that guides every decision, action, regret and learning experience.
Time again hardens the membrane to a brittle shell, walls appear, invisible at first, but it takes few mistakes to realise their importance.
Each brick of wisdom pushes more away, bringing greater surprise to anyone who finds their way through the concealed labyrinth;
A curious conversation, a simple touch, a head on a heart that beats to the same rhythm, and two synonymous smiles.
Every version of love stands on a precipice, where acceptance of vertigo means taking a leap off that edge,
To give up your body, mind, soul and boundaries to another person, wholly, completely and unequivocally, as we first learned through our mother’s breast.
Monica Mills
educator, artist, nomad, feminist, LGBTQ+ activist, pansexual – these are just some of the words I use to describe myself. Currently based in the Czech Republic I divide my time between teaching teens, curating exhibitions, creating artwork, and fundraising for different charities.
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©PSF 2022
