Eva Jacobs, Het haar van mijn mama

These mother portraits are the images that keep me up at night. These are the phobic objects of the child in disguise. For those who hide in the folds of the flesh of their mother. All the belongings of the mother will become the oppression of the child. Her clothes. Her hair. Her skin. In disgrace I love. This mother and daughter are spun around each other with one or the other trying to loosen the twist. These are the all-consuming ones. The maternal love that swallowed the daughter as a whole. The daughter who mistakes her mother for crime. These are reweavings of our umbilical cord. This is the combed hair of my mother. This is my beauty only visible through her glaring reflection. I am trapped in the mirror in which my mother dresses herself. And I sure love to wear her clothes.