In the 1988 manifesto The Advantages of Being a Woman Artist, the Guerilla Girls write that “whatever kind of art you make it will be labeled feminine”.

‘Feminine Art’ is an ongoing series of single images and smaller mixed media collections inspired by this manifesto.

Each mini series is titled with a verb, because being a woman is an action.

B L E E D

Between October 2020 and Spring 2022, I experienced irregular bleeding in between my periods.

As an artist, I wanted to document this experience, but while I was in the midst of the bleeding, I found it hard to connect photography with my journey. I recorded every day I was bleeding in my phone calendar as a practical way to show medical professionals the extent of my bleeding, but towards the end of the journey, I could visually see the marks on my calendar and decided to create these abstract pieces. Each print represents one calendar month, and each dot represents one day of bleeding. What started as evidence became reassurance for me that I was not imaging the extend of my symptoms. When I could see 18 dots on a page, I knew this was not normal. And seeing all 18 months together made an even bigger impact.

I then took this idea further during a residency with curator Josephine May Bailey which culminated in the I Felt That exhibition featuring 13 women and gender non conforming artists around the theme of gendered pain.

Your Calendar Is Wrong

In 2020, I became aware of NASA's 13th constellation - Ophiuchus.  While many pondered what this could mean for their zodiac sign, I wondered how a calendar designed by women would look.  I worked out that if we actually had 13 months in a year, each month would last 28 days (with just one day left over). As anyone who menstruates knows, a cycle is 28 days.  This made much more sense to me and gave me a new appreciation for the typically tainted number 13.  I also found it fitting that there were 13 of us in this exhibition. This piece challenges the patriarchal documentation of time - and emphasises the misogyny of medicine, featuring details which represent contraception, menstrual cycles and the sexualisation of the female body.

Your Calendar is Wrong is made from panty liners, thread, paint, wire and ribbons. The mobile structure itself is a comment on the heteronormative expectation of women to conceive - despite the fact that women still bear the brunt of unpaid care work - ie. being a mother. Similar to my paintings in "bleed", each painted panty liner represents a day I have bled and these are arranged by month, totalling 21 in total. Some months I had a normal period and bled for 4 or 5 days, and so there are 4 or 5 sanitary products on that drop - but others were 15, 16, 18 - the visual effect of these trailing on the floor actually shocked me and reminded me that I was not exaggerating my symptoms. They are held together by red thread which looks similar to that found on tampons, while the red bows are intended to highlight the unecessary sexualisation of the female body. The copper wire represents IUDs, also known as The Coil - an invasive form of contraception which medical professionals seem intent on me using, despite the fact that I rarely have P in V sex, that thanks to so many invasive procedures, I now have trauma around any penetration, or the fact that I have heard so many horror stories about the coil causing harm to a body. I imagined that if women created calendars, there would be 13 months, each with 28 days - and so the top of my mobile was made with 13 pieces of wire, each 28 inches in length.

Read more about this project on the curator’s website:

https://josephinemaybailey.com/ifeltthat

Copies of a special edition Ache Magazine featuring work by all 13 artists can be purchased here:

https://achemagazine.bigcartel.com/product/i-felt-that-a-collection-of-art-and-writing-exploring-gender-and-pain-pre-order

B U R N

Say goodbye to gender stereotypes, gender binaries, gendered clothing, labels, restrictions, expectations, social norms…

BURN YOUR BRAS!

Like many people, I almost entirely stopped wearing bras during the first year of the pandemic. As others went back into the office and donned more socially appropriate attire, I mostly continued without. Then when I had a large tattoo on my left shoulder/chest, I couldn’t wear anything tight for two weeks, and after that, that was it - no more bras. I removed most of my bras from the top drawer and laid them out - why don’t I burn them? At first, I thought this was a bit of a cliché, but when I did some research, I discovered that the so-called “bra burning feminists” we so often hear about, did not, in fact, burn any bras - it was a story cultivated by men. Shocker. My relationship with my body, gender and sexuality continues to grow, and this ritual leaned into my journey of unlearning stereotypes, binaries and labels. Some days I feel feminine, others more masculine, and I don’t feel the need to label myself as either. I wear what I want to wear on that day with no goal of appearing as any gender, just presenting as myself in the way I feel most comfortable that day. Shouldn’t we all do this? Let’s start by de-gendering kids clothing - because blatant messages of “strong” versus “princess” damage us all.

P R O T E S T

Eventually, I took the remains of my bras, layered them over paper, and used spray paint to create these abstract prints. I decided that I had to use only pink paint to again lean into the playfulness of colours representing gender norms. On the surface, these are playful abstract prints which could have been made with any medium. But to me, the artwork represents breaking gender binaries while also allowing the viewer to consider retreating from unsustainable capitalist and patriarchal expectations.

Original prints available to purchase - please contact me for more information.

S P E A K

“I don't hate men, I hate the patriarchy”
But sometimes I do hate the men.
The men like you who have
interrupted
dismissed
ignored
leered
groped
and
raped
me.

“Some people like being different.”
As if different should always mean
hardship
sorrow
pain.
As if surviving the existence of a
heteronormative
patriarchal
misogynistic
racist
privileged
majority
is not
in itself
an accomplishment.

Am I not entitled to feel joy?
What about pride?
You think I haven't earned the right?
As if surviving my trauma
doesn't meet with your idea of trauma.
As if my trauma
doesn't grant me your acceptance or respect.
Do you think I need it?

Are you angry I spoke up for myself?
Or angry at yourself for being called out?

Perhaps I should stay
meek.
Weak.
Silent.
Maybe then I'd be valid in your eyes.
You want me to agree with everything you say?
Smile and nod
like a good girl?
No “sorry”s here,
I won't apologise for speaking my mind.

Are you bored yet?
Feel free to walk away.
That's a privilege I'm not privy to.

Call me an angry feminist
like it's an insult.
Go on.
Call me
a snowflake
a silly woman
an attention seeker.
Call me damaged goods.
Call me anything you want.
You'll only make more determined
to speak
and seek
spaces not meant for you.

U N L E A R N

Unlearning the Gaze

I was 15 in chemistry class,
when Michael pointed to my chest
and said
"you've got a hair".
My stomach was in my throat.
The secret was out.
I looked down.
But to my relief,
he did not mean the fine, blonde hairs
growing on the skin between my breasts,
just where my shirt opened,
probably visible only to me.
But instead at a hair
which has fallen from my head.

I could no longer take the risk,
I had to remove it.
And so began the impact
of the male gaze
on my body.

What followed was years of bleaching and plucking and shaving and laser hair removal.
A hundred hours and hundreds of pounds.
Only for me to feel worse about myself with every regrowth of hair
which was once fine and now thick and dark.
Each millimetre taunting me with misogynistic opinions of a body
that should belong only to me.

At the age of 25,
Charlie pointed to hair on my breast
and demanded
"Get rid of that".
We'd just had sex.
It was a single hair, maybe two or three.
And so there was another patch of my body unworthy
in its natural state.

At 35, I did not want Josh
to point at the stubble on my legs
so I prepared my body
for his gaze.
Only for him to disappear.

So this is the last time I shave my legs for a man.
I will not perpetuate
this cycle of self loathing
for men
who don't deserve my body.

Thank you to my queerness
for allowing me
to remove the shackles
of their gaze
and reclaim my body
to its rightful owner -
me.

I am unlearning.
Slowly.
And returning home -
to myself.