Beneath and between the folds lie the fragments of her story. Her’s is a tale of profound agony and pleasure. Healing and tearing down. Choked and split apart. Warm and endless.She remembers the fear – the fear she’s worked hard to release herself from. Because LoverMother knows how to recreate herself. How to get what she deserves, call in what she desires, revel in her becoming.

In the glow of the evening, she captures what she knows to be true: Her capacity to love. But loving and being loved also means to grieve – so many little deaths.
She looks upon her children and sees every grieving mother’s love reflected back to her. Because to be a LoverMother is to notice always when death draws near. It brushes against her skin like the lips of her lover. Reminding her that her entire world could be taken from her in a flash of red light. Flesh of my flesh.

Dancing between two worlds, LoverMother gives voice to the nurturing and the erotic selves. The overlaps. The interplays. The unexpected moments that bring the greatest taboos into the light.

The LoverMother body. Marked. Shadowed. Light-filled. Life-giving. Grieving. Desiring. Eternal.