One way, or another.


Eliza Bennett

A Woman’s Work is Never Done

A series of photographic works titled ‘A Woman’s Work is Never Done’ Using my own hand as a base material, I considered it a canvas upon which I stitched into the top layer of skin using thread to create the appearance of an incredibly work worn hand.  By using the technique of embroidery, which is traditionally employed to represent femininity and applying it to the expression of its opposite, I hope to challenge the pre-conceived notion that ‘women’s work’ is light and easy.  Aiming to represent the effects of hard work arising from employment in low paid ‘ancillary’ jobs, such as cleaning, caring and catering, all traditionally considered to be ‘women’s work’. 

The technique, I recall first applying to my hand under a table during a home economics class in school. I was totally amazed to find that I could pass a needle under the top layers of skin without any pain, only a mild discomfort.  As with many childhood whims it passed and I hadn’t thought any more about it until quite recently when I decided to apply the process to my hand to make it appear calloused and work worn like that of a manual labourer. Some viewers consider the piece to be a feminist protest, for me it’s about human value. After all, there are many men employed in caring, catering, cleaning etc… all jobs traditionally considered to be ‘women’s work’. Such work is invisible in the larger society, with ‘A woman’s work’ I aim to represent it.  (artist statement)


(via love-cat)

"Sometimes good people make bad decisions."

But she was wrong. There is no good and there is no bad.

This is why I don’t can’t hate you.

Staring into her eyes, I remembered what it felt like that night better than I had remembered it the day after it happened.

I saw again those unkind notes on the walls - things like “get me out of here,” and “CUNT” scratched out in long, shaky, letters - and I felt again the  stitching of the stiff khaki fashion I slept in and the coldness of those half-assed crocs I had on my feet.

I remembered it all too well. 

So I remained motionless, locked in in that blue surveillance of truth. I let it fuck me up.

Blue. Her eyes were blue, deep like sundown on a cloudless evening. Not a spec of light was to be found - no, they were dark, and they were fierce, and they were coming for me.

But they were not relentless, and as she stared at me, I felt truth and untruth clawing at my insides, ready to be released, to be told, to be heard.

I said nothing.