MAMA

As a ritualistic form to say goodbye to her breasts and to prepare herself for a double mastectomy I've made with my mom — diagnosed in the beginning of 2014 with breast cancer —, a photo essay about her breasts, the day before her surgery. The last moments before the mutilation, before one of her femininity symbols, her motherhood, her vanity, being taken away, while we explored the sad nature of our bodies, alongside with the nature of our home. At the backyard, close to the nightfall, with extremely low light and all of the fear and uncertainty that would come after the dawn, me and my mother exposed ourselves, on a multiple trade of emotions, a search to understand what we were feeling and how we were going to portray ourselves before the future. More than photos of a goodbye, the images capture all the weight, the fear and the unattachment we were feeling at the time. Me, not knowing how to handle with words; she, not wanting to be seen as vulnerable. So she imposed herself and stood strong, posed on an effort to portray not only her pain, but her strength. Photography is an agressive thing, it intimidates. Only happy moments should be portrayed, only the smile - and not the pain - should be eternal. Photography uncertainty inevitably a weapon. It hurst, but also protects. Protects as long as attacks, as long as shows how the pain that turned our world upside down was, at the end, flipped by her strenght. More than a register: souvenir. Souvenir of strength, souvenir of a woman. Souvenir of Mama.