Would I throw away a bird//Lára Margrétardóttir

Follow
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the bag around the fetus
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a ghost or spirit that follows a person

This show is a picture of my mother, my attempt at re-creation It varies with time, the menstrual cycle, emotions and the decisions of each moment.

Our mothers are an integral part of being - our portal to this world The invisible umbilical cord extends beyond the walls where the lungs first touch the atmosphere, where the string is cut with tiny scissors - more is not needed for the flesh to break apart, breaking the living thread that woven mother and baby for 9 months - but although the umbilical cord is torn apart, it shrinks into a hard ball in the baby's navel and ends as a brown flips from memory in a gold-plated scum - is it impenetrable But who is the mother when the flesh that connected us is shredded? When she and we scatter for the first and last time, she no longer our protective capsule, we no longer have two separate creatures forever tied up. Who was she? C? C

I sweep together crumbled - memories, dreams, stories, words - and create a hollow cast of a person Put myself in the role of the Creator, the image of my mother will inevitably be a picture of me, a mother-in-law cast together in an ever-changing patchwork quilt.

A mystery without an answer, a journey without the end of the road - the locks are gone, rusty, already crumbled to powderFuku with the autumn winds and we know there is no way to arrange the fragments together, they are gone, in the sea, on snow-covered peaks between fjords, in the clouds We may be able to peek through a line of rifting and experience some truth - arranging the fragments it left for us to make of our own collage, disfigured and beautiful.