MOTHER OF MY EYES
Illuminated portraits of me and my mother were set up and spread through a narrow path. Designed for the public to navigate through and have an introspective peek into our relationship.

​The dual sided light-boxes showcase a range of photographs us around the same age. I omitted the features we most resemble on one side, and had the other side preview smaller, unedited fragments of ourselves. This was to diminish likeness in our identities as one of the same, and eliminate any scattered symbolism as a relational tie.​​​​​​​​

Pendant Essay
If you ask me who the most beautiful person is, I always answer that it is my mother. But I didn't used to admit this readily— as the relationship with her, and the grasp of beauty, is still an intricate knot I learn to untangle.

During my years of adolescence, I was plump, had acne aplenty, and donned horrible haircuts after horrible haircuts (especially those defining teenagers in early Millennia). It was easy to feel insecure with all these changes going on, and my mother's criticisms certainly didn't help. She sure let me know that to be so inflated was unnatural and that when she was my age, she was thin, agile, and full of grace. Towards me, there wasn't any praise or compliments out of her that wouldn't be followed by what could be different... or better.

Despite it all, there never was an intention to hurt. She was blunt and said what she felt the instant she thought it. Those who knew her, adapted to her sharp tongue or dodged the spitfire before it landed. I'd fare growing up easier if I knew to too. I started thinking: “where were my shares of smarts and looks?”. Many nights were spent questioning why I lost at this lottery of genetics. I bear the color of her eyes, a semblance of her top lip... And it seemed like that was it. The only conclusion I came to was that being more like her would make her happy. And even if it seemed like the furthest thing I should want, deep down I yearned to be as stunningly memorable as her too.

There was a point in my life where I couldn't stop internally emulating her harsh view of me, at me. I even criticized myself in ways even she would never speak to me in, but those thoughts still manifested as her opinions. It became a hard habit to break, and lingered with me for years before I could quell its effects. I just couldn’t tell what was me or of her anymore; though wasn’t that what I wanted in the first place? The disillusion became such routine but I now recognize the distance it created in our relationship.

Looking back now at the age I am now, I harbored those feelings because I couldn't understand the intentions of a highly critical, highly concerned mother. This project became a meditative reflection of what I had gone through. In an act of dissonance, I found peace instead.