Reflections on Motherhood, Freelancing and Arts
‘It wasn't until I noticed how intense parenting is that I realised I couldn't keep quiet about it. It is precisely by talking about it that you can bring about change, otherwise you maintain the status quo of silence.’
These are the words of Mirthe Berentsen, a writer, artist, and curator I’ve never met, but whose insights I sought for comfort when motherhood and art-making felt incompatible. I borrowed these words from an article by Ciska Hoet in the latest edition of Etcetera (#177), which focuses on kinship. I did so, because I’ve finally come to understand their meaning.
Almost two years ago, one week before I gave birth to my second child, I put on paper a text titled ‘Tour Diaries’ and kept it silent. As the experience it describes left me feeling extremely vulnerable, speaking up about it was not an option. Something I strongly felt but couldn’t yet name must have been the Catch-22 that Berentsen mentions in the article:
'If you speak out about parenthood and do not want to hide it in your work, or even want to thematise it, you also make yourself vulnerable. You quickly become that nagging mother and not the ambitious artist (...)'
But if our intentions are genuine and we truly seek to make our cultural sector (including the dance part of it) more inclusive, if we were to untangle the knots of old structures which if not exposed, might only repeat themselves, and if I were to contribute to that change, I had to de-dust these ‘Tour Diaries’. And as much as I wish to write today about the practicalities of combining motherhood with freelance art work, the often-lacking consideration for the caregiving so many of us do, the time it consumes, or the persistent gender divisions, I will, for now, stick to the language of my past experience.
It is the middle of 2022. In Belgium, on a plane, in an Italian village, in rehearsal clothes. We are post-#MeToo and post-COVID-19 waves. It’s a time of solidarity, care, transparency—times for changes for the better. Inclusivity has only just begun to appear.
It is almost 18 weeks old. About 14.2 cm long and weighs around 190 grams. I already know it’s a boy. He’s already pushing against my costume, which no longer closes as securely or prettily as it should.
It is a group piece choreographed by a female artist, a mother of two. Assisted by a mother of one, a female outside eye. Both of them advocating for making a job of a dancer and motherhood a doable deal.
It is the middle of 2019. We are in a dance studio, just at the start of the creation process. It is lunch break, and I am pumping. Slightly ashamed and guilty for not having time to socialise and eat with everyone else, I try to see how much breast milk I can produce for my 7-month-old son. I can’t see very well; it’s dark, and I’m sitting in a dusty corner of a theatre backstage.
Lunch break and my pumping session are both over. Everyone else is returning to the space, giggling. Quite content with my 170 ml of milk and with a feeling of preciousness and care, I set aside the liquid and machinery. Getting ready to start rehearsing again, I am joined by the female choreographer. Naive as always, I smile and start to small talk. 'When do you think you will be strong enough? You are the weakest of the group now, and I’m afraid you won’t manage to sync with the rest.' I’m so happy I managed to pump beforehand.
It is late spring 2022. It’s still an embryo kept secret, but I call anyway. I want to be transparent and ask whether it’s okay for me not to jump so high and if my costume could be adapted. By the time we perform again, my body will have expanded. I hear congratulations and a double yes. ‘Yes, of course we can adapt the physical material and jumps to what will be necessary at the moment’ and 'yes, let me call you before the tour starts so we check the costume together’. Relieved, I have once again reassured my belief in transparency. I was never called before the tour.
It is October 2019. It is time for the post-premiere applause. Time for celebration, flowers, drinks (by that time, my lactation had stopped, so socialising as we know it was possible again), and loving hugs. It’s the end of a working period in which verbal violence repeatedly took centre stage, often directed at one or two people, mostly with a choir of silent observers in the background.
'You did so great, finally. It’s amazing how the audience, costume, light, and make-up opened you up—it must have been the process of becoming a young mum that caused so much resistance in you, but it’s so great to see you’re over it, finally.'
It is hot Italian summer of 2022, beginning of the first performance. It feels good and it makes me feel grateful to be able to both perform and grow a human being at the same time. We’re just getting into it. My bra, which was secured with a safety pin at the last moment, has opened up, and the tutu keeps falling down. Post-performance, I’m asked what my problem with the costume was and told that my outfit and I looked like shit on stage.
It is 36° degrees. With the stress caused by the not perfectly working sound, this Italian theatre feels even warmer. It is a technical rehearsal and amid the shouting between the choreographer and the assistant, I am told be more like X and Y, less like myself, to jump higher and to basically change what I have been doing since 2019. Confused but not surprised, I recognise these non-constructive feedbacks as a way of dealing with stress. I start to stress.
It is the second show. It's only the first half of the performance, but my body feels a bit strange. I'm apparently too weak to resist the pressure and I try to jump higher. I know I’m not jumping alone, so I use all possible muscular techniques to protect my insides. I must be failing because I see my body lifting less high than the others.
We’re into the second half of the performance, but my body feels even stranger. I feel the fear of showing weakness battling with the fear for my pregnancy. The show must go on, and the stress takes over my body. It’s over.
Applause. Everyone releases, and so does my body. I have a panic attack and hyperventilate behind the curtain. I don’t know which fear won, but judging by the distant look from the assistant, I must have shown my weakness. All I can think now is to say loudly to my son, now as big as an artichoke, 'I’m so sorry' and 'never again.'
“All I can think now is to say loudly to my son, now as big as an artichoke, ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘never again’.”
Paris. Early spring of 2022. The weather is so surprisingly beautiful that it feels like a holiday. After each performance, we come out directly to look at the Eiffel Tower. The group works, the work works, we’re all having a blast, and the unpleasant past seems to have finally dissolved. I feel strong for having pushed through and grateful to be dancing, touring, and mothering all at once.
It is the last day of the Italian tour. After a few tearful phone calls and a fearful night of me regularly checking whether I was bleeding, I communicate my decision not to perform that day. Surprisingly, I’m met with what feels like understanding. What follows, though, is direct questioning about whether I’ll be able to perform again four months postpartum and whether I’ll be strong enough. Whether my condition will allow me to jump high enough or whether it will make me jump out, in a negative sense. I don’t know, I say, but I emphasise my willingness and commitment, and we agree to check in once I’m postpartum.
Our third shared Italian dinner. It’s time to split the bill. A bit less shy than on the previous nights, I ask whether we could keep in mind that I’m not drinking alcohol at the moment. I don’t speak French, but I hear it being mumbled in response. I say to a friend that I sense some resistance to my question, and he confirms that there is. I openly ask what the issue is and, unaware of the power of that direct question, I trigger a volcano.
'You’re being problematic, cheap', 'always', 'more experienced dancers know that on tour we all share equally', 'it’s just a few bottles of wine', and 'why are you attacking me in front of the group?' Observed by the whole team in awkward silence, the exchange ends with me being told by the assistant that I’m harassing the assistant.
Double-checking the exact meaning of the word 'harassment' with our native-speaking colleague, I say no and respond that harassment is what happened throughout the creation process. After the three-year-long working process and a few rounds of learning how to stand up for myself and my body, I’m filled with inner peace and confidence now, knowing I’m standing up for us and our shared body.
London, three days later. A phone call:
'We need to talk, let’s meet.'
'Should I be worried?'
'I don’t know.'
'Why don’t we talk now? Otherwise, I will be worried.'
'Mm, okay. I was thinking, and I feel that the piece doesn’t need you anymore.'
'But a couple of months ago, when I considered leaving, you called me to say how much the piece needs me.'
'Yes, true, but it doesn’t anymore.'
'So, you’re firing me. Hmm, okay. And why?'
'On an artistic level. In Italy, there was a difference between you and the others.'
'What kind of difference, if I may ask?'
'Well, yes, there was a difference in jumps.'
It is early December 2022, and I am 38 weeks pregnant. The little boy is the size of a small pumpkin, and as I prepare for the unknown, I reflect on what it means to be a mother with the ambition to continue as a dancer. I reflect on the vulnerability, strength, and doubts that have once already overwhelmed me. I hope that won’t happen again, and I plan never to bend my limits again due to the precarity of that ambition.
I know well that my experience of becoming a mother while freelancing as a dancer was a bad one. I know of people and places that offer care, support and understanding—or at least a clean and quiet corner to pump breast milk in. I was puzzled to hear that more often than not these people are men.
“Maybe one day, that most natural thing of being a parent will feel ordinary and included within the workings of our precarious cultural sector?”
It got me thinking: Is it because men, unlike women, haven’t directly experienced the hardness, competition, and rules of patriarchy that young mothers have? Maybe the lack of support or understanding from older female artists is something we should approach with empathy and compassion? Perhaps the generation of mothers who are now passing their expectations and experiences on to people like me had to be so tough that any sign of softness, doubt, or vulnerability is a threat to them—or a reminder of what they had to suppress or coolly handle when they became parents? Maybe for myself, I should hope never to feel tempted to pass on the hardness I experienced to the next generation of mothers? Maybe, for now, sisterhood is still just a promising concept?
Maybe one day, that most natural thing of being a parent will feel ordinary and included within the workings of our precarious cultural sector? Maybe, when we finally allow the hardness of patriarchy to crumble for real, we’ll manage to build more relevant support systems? Only then, maybe, will we see that catchy glittering words like SOLIDARITY, SISTERHOOD, or CARE sprinkled over old constructions aren’t enough to bring about change. And maybe only then will we manage to truly build new systems of mutual support on new foundations, with much wider horizons.
We are in the middle of the September chaos. In the midst of fixing, maintaining, caring, soothing, and planning. I am almost daily overwhelmed even before the kids start their activities at school or crèche. Within my own headspace, I crave a room of my own.
I hope the domestic will make more space for the creative. To see family and kinship become subjects of interest to the cultural sector and beyond. I’m hopeful I’ll soon learn how to balance them both. I get excited about great literature such as Love Me Tender by Constance Debré, Matrescence by Lucy Jones, The Baby on the Fire Escape by Julie Phillips, The Girl in White by Sue Hubbard, or Waar zijn de wolken? Een pleidooi voor minder zelfzorg by Suzanne Grotenhuis. I look out for more. I feel empowered hearing these voices speak about (m)otherhood and creativity, about their experiences combining artistic work and obligations with caring for little ones, or what it means to create and birth a human being and how to juggle—or refuse to juggle—all the roles at once. Their words are a great source of inspiration to me. They help me crack the feeling of isolation. The symposia, podcasts, and articles flowing in from many sides and tackling these themes are a powerful force that opens my eyes to how inclusive the ‘inclusive’ really is. They give me the energy to keep them open. They help me gather the vocabulary needed to talk about and understand the complexity of the creativity-care-mind-child-availability issue and to question the unambitious and uninteresting label often attached to it.
Feeling the public space open up to what we see as private is a fantastic thing, but, surprisingly, it doesn’t soothe me just yet. Instead, this openness acts as an allowance to fully feel the harshness of what it means to be a freelance dance artist and a parent of small kids. Observing how this long-neglected subject, once sculpted into the periphery, is now shyly gaining the attention it deserves doesn’t bring the immediate comfort I had hoped for. What it rather brings is a release of tension and anger.
Anger though, is a significant step forward from silence and often a prelude to change.
