This practice begins in the body, in its folds, fractures, and repetitions. Motherhood made the body central, both subject and source. Motherhood reorients. I’ve come to understand that I’m not just making artwork, I’m making from myself. The boundaries between body, creation, and repair have dissolved. What I create is raw, impassioned, vulnerable. It is full and fractured. It hurts. It’s overwhelming joy. It is motherhood. It is art. They are no longer separate. The medium is flesh – my flesh. Fabric stitched and creased, stretched thin and gathered tight. It bears the marks of time, of transformation. This is the body of the older mother. ‘Advanced maternal age’ they call it. Grey now, skin changing, softening, loosening. This, too, needs to be documented. These self-portraits become form – object, sculpture, painting – rendered through the body, intentionally without a face. This omission resists emphasis on identity and recognition. Instead, the body is the primary site of meaning: marked, ruptured, healed. It holds the traces of lived experience, its folds, scars, and shifts. This is not metaphor, but material evidence. An archive of maternal time, ageing, and transformation.