In 2008, three malignant lumps were found in my body. Within two months, I had transformed from a person defined by many words and worlds, into one definition: a cancer patient. Breast-cancer, a women’s disease.
Two days before I had to part with my breasts forever and ever, I picked up my camera and pointed it at myself, driven by the need to create a memorial for what will no longer be.
The synthetic eyes-wide-shut transplants, the loss of my fertility and the shedding of my hair, were more than I could deconstruct and conceptualize in real-time. As a writer, I was left wordless.
The only way I could act, was to document reality, as it was reflected in my bedroom mirror, the most significant domain in my life at the time. Again and again I returned to the crime scene, assessed the marks of accelerated time, waiting for my breasts to grow back.
In a series of photographs, feeding off what my subconscious recognized as representation of beauty or aesthetic, I recorded the corruption of my femininity, struggling to elevate the horror to a work of art.
The camera, behind which was me, had become my most meaningful fighting arena as a person, as a woman, and as an artist. In time, it bore the virtue of a straightforward and uncompassionate judge, and had become my one and only objective eye. One who sees reality for what it is, even when I try to render it beautiful.