Yiayia | Mum | Me

NOT FOR SALE

Yiayia

Oh neighbour,
Don’t hear me cry.

Lineage bloomed,
From the pit,
Lodged between my ribs,
There,
They were born.

My tongue
(Bit in time,
at the port,
where I surrendered)
wraps around their molars.

All my proof is calloused,
Hardened crystallised salt.

The metallic taste of labour,
Splintered my tongue,
Rotting the past into lore.

Submerged my face in dirt,
Muffling the wailing omens,
So, they trembled through,
My garden their provider,
I sent them out home-full,
In the dark,
On my knees,
God –
My neighbour,
“Hear my service.”

Mum

The artichoke unfurled in my cupped palms,
On the day I betrayed my vowels,
And I swallowed the crown,
I peeled off each choke,
I handed you the petals.

Your warm belly full,
I watched you all night,
I wondered,
About the dreams behind your eyes,
And if I could make them true.

A silver pearl,
On the day we met,
Appeared in my palm.
I buried it in our garden,
And on the seventh day,
A sunflower bloomed,
I picked it for you.

Please know,
I would skin myself,
Make a blanket out of me,
To keep you warm.

Me

I’m sitting on the grass cross-legged,
Idly pulling up the yellow weeds,
And sucking on their stems,
The sour taste sticking to my tongue,
You are on the deck pounding dough,
Each thick fist calling me,
You cradle my frosty hands,
Your warmth is stark,
We return,
To our feet toasty from the radiator,
And mandarin juice from your tree,
Did I tell you?
That she tugged at my sleeve,
And sang a warning into my ears,
No?
She told me to run – far,
She told me I am your labour,
And we will be free.

Artist statement

FAYE

In response to the exhibition theme, love lines, I subverted the idea of generational trauma to study generational love lines. I was inspired to understand how love has transformed throughout three generations of my family, starting with my yiayia, the matriarch, then my mother, the provider, and finally, myself, the bridge. Our three unique experiences, spirits and circumstances have cultivated intertwining and diverging love lines.

The three pieces also tell a story of migration and how starting a new lineage in a foreign country with no money, no language and no education dictates how love grows. My yiayia faced much adversity to provide for her daughters and had to make many sacrifices to survive. My mother had to contend with the pressure of cementing her parents' journey by attaining the markers of what society deems success. As a result, I was given the freedom of education, choice, and liberation from duty.

The poems are interwoven within the fabric of the collages, positioned as visual allegories and representations of the three women to unite the relationship between visual and written art.