One day in my downtown studio, I was reflecting on three white masks I made of my face. Tears flooded my eyes as I recognized the image as a reflection of the colorless, empty relationship I’d had with my father. My parents’ child-raising philosophy — a girl for mom, a boy for dad — robbed me of my relationship with him. Dad didn’t rescue me from my good girl role with Mom, he didn’t save me from my unhappiness, he didn’t even know it existed. G-d how I wish he could’ve understood — and loved — my big, beautiful, frontal nudes.
I wish he could have understood me.
