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by Cláudio Alves
Motherhood is a subject ripe for horrific extrapolation. Some might regard their offspring as hopeful mirrors, wishing them to be an improved reflection. Disappointment, when it unavoidably comes, is a spiky cruel monster. There are others for whom birthing a mirror is the worst possible fate, the child a magnifying glass of perceived faults. Moreover, the similarity can feel draining, a youthful leech sucking out its mother's lifeforce, a constant reminder of mortality. Hanna Bergholm's Hatching takes these perceptions of motherhood and mixes them with body horror, cranks them up to eleven, and ties everything up in a pink satin bow that reeks of vomit and discarded flesh…
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