top of page
The Birth of an Artist - Performance
Play Video

The Birth of an Artist 
2023 
Performance, 23 minutes 

Mother: I don’t know what to do.

 

Foetus: About what?

 

Mother: About you.

 

Foetus: What do you mean?

 

Mother: I can barely rationalise it myself. I don’t know how I could possibly explain this to you.

 

Foetus: Well, could you try?

 

Mother: Oh, darling… look, before I get into this, I just want to tell you how much I’ve grown to love you. Resting my hands on my stomach and knowing that you’re under there is just so reassuring.  I want to protect you, but the truth is, I’m just not sure I’m ready to have you. This might be quite difficult for you to hear, but it’s not even really about the practicalities of it either. I’m certainly old enough. I have a good job, a decent income, a stable relationship with your dad. Your grandparents and great-grandparents would spoil you to death.

 

Foetus: Then, why don’t you think you’re ready?

 

Mother: God, it’s so selfish of me to even be having this conversation with you.

 

Foetus: Don’t be silly. You know how much I appreciate your honesty? How much I appreciate you for not treating me like… such a…. child?

 

Mother: Well, I don’t feel even slightly fulfilled in life yet. I have so many unrealised dreams, that I’m only just beginning to see the outlines of through all this haze of societal expectation. I hate being a lawyer. Its soul destroying. And if I had you, I’d have to stay in this job, at least for the meantime, so that I can give you all the things I never had.

 

Foetus: Oh God mum… I would hate to be the reason you feel trapped in a career that makes you so unhappy.

 

Mother: Well, exactly. I’m so afraid of coming to resent you, and your father. Of looking at you and being reminded of my own failures. Of being jealous of you and your life’s potential. I’m just not sure that I’m the kind of Mother you need me to be yet.

 

Foetus: Well, what kind of Mother is it you want to be?

 

Mother: Uh, a fulfilled Mother? I want more than anything to be able to express myself creatively in my work. But I just don’t know how to go about making that a reality. I’m terrified of losing the security I’ve built for myself.

 

Foetus: Well, what is it you could imagine yourself doing, exactly? You know if it weren’t for money. If it weren’t for me.

 

Mother: Erm, I’ve always thought I’d just like to be in a room, surrounded by different materials, where I have the complete and utter freedom to express myself. Where there are no boundaries.

 

Foetus: Mum, it sounds like you want to be an artist.

performance website -3.jpg

Mother: *scoffs* That’s a pipe dream, it could never happen. I have no creative training beyond my GCSEs. There’s no way I’d be taken seriously in the art world. I’d be so behind. I mean, maybe being a mother is my calling. Maybe you could provide me with that sense of fulfilment I’ve been looking for?

 

Foetus: I don’t know mum, that’s putting quite a lot of pressure on me, being your only source of fulfilment in life? I mean, what on earth will you do when I turn 18?

 

Mother: Oh god. you’re right. You know I can’t even go to your nan for advice, because her sense of self is so all consumed by me, that she just agrees with whatever it is I say anyway. I want more than anything to be able to ask her what the hell I should do, but I know I’d just be standing in an echo chamber.

 

Foetus: And you think I  have a developed enough sense of self to provide you with more than just an echo chamber right now?

 

Mother: I don’t know. I just wanted to give you, my truth. Whatever the hell that is. I don’t think I’m ready to give up my freedom just yet, but I’m equally terrified of the possibility that I might not even be fertile enough to have you by the time I feel ready to share my life with you.

 

Mother pauses, sighs, and places her face in her hands. She picks up the pill packet from the side of the sink and examines it.

 

Mother: I’ve only just begun this journey of finding out who I really am, rather than who everyone else wants me to be.

 

Mother puts the pill packet back down on the side of the sink.

performance website -2.jpg

Foetus: So, what, you’re looking for permission from me? To live your life, in the way that you want to?

 

Mother: I guess so? I mean who even are you? What do you look like? I can picture you as a little girl… maybe… blue eyes? Who will you grow up to be? What if you’re the next Tracey Emin for God’s sake?

 

Foetus: What if you’re the next Tracey Emin, mum? I’m literally a ball of cells, no bigger than a blueberry. I don’t even think I have a central nervous system. Do you really think you need permission from a ball of cells, or anyone for that matter, to make decisions about your own body?

 

Mother: No, no, you’re right. Well, not in this country, at least. I can’t imagine having to go through something like this, in a place where it’s illegal to even make the decision. How on earth do those women cope? It’s difficult enough without all those men in expensive suits butting in and signing away our bodily autonomy.

 

Foetus: Eurgh. How can those places still exist? Do these men have any idea how it feels to carry something like me around for 9 months?

 

Mother: Its shocking, I know. But last year, America of all places made safe abortion illegal. I mean, who the fuck do these men think they are? Using the law to control and manipulate women in one of the most vulnerable states they can be in?

 

Foetus: Hmm, that sounds like “it”.

 

Mother: What?

 

Foetus: Your voice. Your artistic voice. Your source of fulfilment.

 

Mother: Huh. Maybe you’re right. So, this is it then? Your permission?

 

Foetus: We’ve been over this. You only need permission from yourself to do this.

 

Mother: But it’s going to hurt so much.

 

Foetus: Use it. Use the pain. Channel it. Change the world, so at least I can enjoy the same rights you have now, when you finally feel ready to have me.

Screenshot 2023-01-07 at 17.22.28.png

Mother picks up the pill on the side of the sink, placing it in the palm of her hand. She looks at it, and then at herself in the mirror.

Screenshot 2023-01-07 at 17.17.04.png

She puts it in her mouth, picks up the glass of water on the side of the sink, and drinks.

Screenshot 2023-01-07 at 17.18.03.png

Mother turns around and sits at a desk. She turns on the lamp, inserts a piece of paper into the typewriter, and begins typing.

Mother stands up and walks out of the room, leaving the chair untucked. The song “Dominique” by The Singing nun plays.

bottom of page