Full Circle
Collaborative Project by
Amy Marques (Art)&Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos (Fiction)
Spring (noun): a time or season of growth or development
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
The boys had no clue. They were too busy playing ball, fighting, laughing, enjoying their own little club of alpha male wannabes yet bonding as they tried to catch a glimpse of boobs.
But the girls were divided. The cool ones belonged to a secret society that wore pink bracelets on their left wrist—Olivia had started it, the it girl with the doctor dad and lawyer mum and the beautiful green parka.
A secret society flaunting its womanhood at Noor’s immature body.
Every minute, every hour of every school day. In class, at recess.
But the girls were divided. The cool ones belonged to a secret society that wore pink bracelets on their left wrist—Olivia had started it, the it girl with the doctor dad and lawyer mum and the beautiful green parka.
A secret society flaunting its womanhood at Noor’s immature body.
Every minute, every hour of every school day. In class, at recess.
But the worst was during PE. How the pink-bracelet-girls moaned and hugged their bellies and grabbed pads and tampons and made sure everyone saw them as they dashed to the bathroom. Of course, they all wore bras as well—proper ones, with actual breasts inside. They were part of the clan. At this point, even the younger girls had joined in.
All but Noor.
Her mother tutted when she complained. You’re the lucky one, she’d say. But Noor ignored her and prayed every day for her period to finally start. To belong and wear a pink bracelet, just like the others, and have breasts, too. To stop being treated with disdain, stop being an outsider who didn’t fit anywhere. Noor wanted to moan and hug her belly and smile a sad, but satisfied smile. A pathetic little knowing smile that said yes, I’m one of us. I belong.
Noor didn’t mind. Her space was quieter when he wasn’t there, the atmosphere less grumpy and bossy. The walls sighed with relief when he slammed the door on his way out, and the shutters groaned. How claustrophobic it got at times. She breathed better when alone. It was so refreshing for Noor to decide what to eat, which movie to watch, what time to go to bed without needing a whole discussion about any tiny, irrelevant decision. She could drink as many cups of tea as she wanted without a single comment about it. She’d even smoked a couple of cigarettes at the kitchen window after he left. The naughtiness of it all made her smile and feel young and free again, even for an instant. And Noor and her nugget laughed more, talked more when James worked late and went on business trips.
She’d stopped following him on social media three years ago. There was no need. He could do whatever he wanted. She didn’t care anymore. The hurt was gone, dripping along with her perspiration following each hot flash of anger. Salty tears had lined her face and left her raw until she let the feelings go, like old leaves fallen off a tree, turning to mush. Marital mush.
Noor’s glasses fogged. She grabbed a tissue to dab her forehead, eyes, neck, then dogeared the page she’d been trying to read and used the book as a fan.
Night sweat was the worst. She’d never experienced her eyelids sweating before. That was fun. Not. It burned like chilly peppers.
Yet.
Here she was, crying her eyes out because it was official. It’d been a year. She was old and useless, but why was she still getting hot flashes? And it wasn’t fair that years of endometriosis had left behind a wall of fibroids. Her mum had been right after all. She’d been the lucky one, the late bloomer. And she hated pink.
Bittersweet. That was how she felt as her ovaries went into hibernation, hid and shrank and died a peaceful death. They’d done well, though. They’d given her a beautiful nugget. So young and smooth. Fitting effortlessly into a society that would systematically underestimate her. But for now, filled with hope and optimism and expectation. Such a joy to watch. Noor was so proud.
That morning, she’d read that orcas were among the few other mammals going through menopause. She wished James, stupid James, would buy a boat. She’d love nothing more than to swim underwater and overturn that stupid old man, young enough to start afresh and become a dad all over again. Noor doubted he’d be any better at it the second time around. She almost felt sorry for that wife of his. Almost.
Dolphins were pretty and smooth, but whales were strong and clever and sang beautifully. And so would Noor. She was done needing permission to be and do. Done trying to fit in. Done allowing society to imprison her. Noor wanted to sing and let nature take over. No more makeup, no more bras, and she was done colouring her hair and shaving her legs. She felt her spring returning and knew that she would be reborn: free and hairy and happy.
People sometimes wonder how collaborations work and there’s no one answer to that. There never is. But in the interest of encouraging more artists to work together in process and inspiration, here’s some snippets of how we collaborated on this.
Across an ocean and enough time zones to make one’s coffee align with another’s bedtime routines, Delphine (D) sent an invitation to collaborate.
D: 'I have a potential project and was wondering if you’d like to work on a collaboration with me to make some sort of art/story together?'
Spoiler alert: the answer was an immediate yes.
We’ve both worked together before. Amy (A) has illustrated Delphine’s stories both in the Duets Anthologies and in Ghost Parachute and D has published A’s art and words in Raw Lit. We admire each other’s aesthetics and have enjoyed product and process, but this was an invitation to collaborate in process.
All but Noor.
Her mother tutted when she complained. You’re the lucky one, she’d say. But Noor ignored her and prayed every day for her period to finally start. To belong and wear a pink bracelet, just like the others, and have breasts, too. To stop being treated with disdain, stop being an outsider who didn’t fit anywhere. Noor wanted to moan and hug her belly and smile a sad, but satisfied smile. A pathetic little knowing smile that said yes, I’m one of us. I belong.
Summer (noun): a period of maturing powers
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
The antiseptic stink made her want to gag and she needed to pee and she craved chicken nuggets.
Would it have made a difference if the doctor was a woman instead of the pompous moron who couldn’t even look her in the eyes? Noor wasn’t sure, but she was so annoyed at being ignored while he acknowledged James—as if her nugget was growing inside his body. As if men knew better, and she was just a little girl about to throw a tantrum rather than a mother growing a child inside her belly. They treated her like a freaking brainless incubator. Back to being a girl. And no amount of pink bracelets would make her feel better at this point. But nuggets might.
Where had the midwife gone? Noor needed safety in numbers. Pauline—was that her name?—saw her. This idiot with a receding hairline did not. She wanted to grab the little hair left on the man’s head and shout at him. Look at me. Talk to me, not to him.
Of course, when she’d mentioned it to James after their last visit, he didn’t see the problem and blamed her hormones. After all, it was a well-known fact that women got hormonal during pregnancy.
Shhh-thump shhh-thump shhh-thump.
Her little nugget’s heartbeat sounded like the universe had just expanded. Or exploded. She wasn’t sure. But her universe suddenly filled with so much love. Her heart exploded with joy.
Shhh-thump shhh-thump shhh-thump…
James was away. On a business trip. Again.
Would it have made a difference if the doctor was a woman instead of the pompous moron who couldn’t even look her in the eyes? Noor wasn’t sure, but she was so annoyed at being ignored while he acknowledged James—as if her nugget was growing inside his body. As if men knew better, and she was just a little girl about to throw a tantrum rather than a mother growing a child inside her belly. They treated her like a freaking brainless incubator. Back to being a girl. And no amount of pink bracelets would make her feel better at this point. But nuggets might.
Where had the midwife gone? Noor needed safety in numbers. Pauline—was that her name?—saw her. This idiot with a receding hairline did not. She wanted to grab the little hair left on the man’s head and shout at him. Look at me. Talk to me, not to him.
Of course, when she’d mentioned it to James after their last visit, he didn’t see the problem and blamed her hormones. After all, it was a well-known fact that women got hormonal during pregnancy.
Shhh-thump shhh-thump shhh-thump.
Her little nugget’s heartbeat sounded like the universe had just expanded. Or exploded. She wasn’t sure. But her universe suddenly filled with so much love. Her heart exploded with joy.
Shhh-thump shhh-thump shhh-thump…
Autumn (noun): a period of maturity or incipient decline
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
James was away. On a business trip. Again.
Noor didn’t mind. Her space was quieter when he wasn’t there, the atmosphere less grumpy and bossy. The walls sighed with relief when he slammed the door on his way out, and the shutters groaned. How claustrophobic it got at times. She breathed better when alone. It was so refreshing for Noor to decide what to eat, which movie to watch, what time to go to bed without needing a whole discussion about any tiny, irrelevant decision. She could drink as many cups of tea as she wanted without a single comment about it. She’d even smoked a couple of cigarettes at the kitchen window after he left. The naughtiness of it all made her smile and feel young and free again, even for an instant. And Noor and her nugget laughed more, talked more when James worked late and went on business trips.
She’d stopped following him on social media three years ago. There was no need. He could do whatever he wanted. She didn’t care anymore. The hurt was gone, dripping along with her perspiration following each hot flash of anger. Salty tears had lined her face and left her raw until she let the feelings go, like old leaves fallen off a tree, turning to mush. Marital mush.
Noor’s glasses fogged. She grabbed a tissue to dab her forehead, eyes, neck, then dogeared the page she’d been trying to read and used the book as a fan.
Night sweat was the worst. She’d never experienced her eyelids sweating before. That was fun. Not. It burned like chilly peppers.
James hated spicy food.
Noor opened her music app, increasing the volume on her phone. Red hot.
Hum… Pizza. She’d order them some pizza tonight. Pepperoni.
Mother and daughter deserved a spicy girls’ night with a silly romantic comedy to boot.
The walls sighed with contentment as she breathed in and out, waiting for the hot flash to dissipate.
Noor opened her music app, increasing the volume on her phone. Red hot.
Hum… Pizza. She’d order them some pizza tonight. Pepperoni.
Mother and daughter deserved a spicy girls’ night with a silly romantic comedy to boot.
The walls sighed with contentment as she breathed in and out, waiting for the hot flash to dissipate.
Winter (noun): a period of inactivity or decay
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
Noor had been waiting for this day for so long.
Yet.
Here she was, crying her eyes out because it was official. It’d been a year. She was old and useless, but why was she still getting hot flashes? And it wasn’t fair that years of endometriosis had left behind a wall of fibroids. Her mum had been right after all. She’d been the lucky one, the late bloomer. And she hated pink.
Bittersweet. That was how she felt as her ovaries went into hibernation, hid and shrank and died a peaceful death. They’d done well, though. They’d given her a beautiful nugget. So young and smooth. Fitting effortlessly into a society that would systematically underestimate her. But for now, filled with hope and optimism and expectation. Such a joy to watch. Noor was so proud.
That morning, she’d read that orcas were among the few other mammals going through menopause. She wished James, stupid James, would buy a boat. She’d love nothing more than to swim underwater and overturn that stupid old man, young enough to start afresh and become a dad all over again. Noor doubted he’d be any better at it the second time around. She almost felt sorry for that wife of his. Almost.
Dolphins were pretty and smooth, but whales were strong and clever and sang beautifully. And so would Noor. She was done needing permission to be and do. Done trying to fit in. Done allowing society to imprison her. Noor wanted to sing and let nature take over. No more makeup, no more bras, and she was done colouring her hair and shaving her legs. She felt her spring returning and knew that she would be reborn: free and hairy and happy.
On Creating Full Circle Together
Fragments of a Collaborative Project
Note: in italics are bits of texts and comments and drafts and final piece
Spring (noun): a time or season of growth or development
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
People sometimes wonder how collaborations work and there’s no one answer to that. There never is. But in the interest of encouraging more artists to work together in process and inspiration, here’s some snippets of how we collaborated on this.
Across an ocean and enough time zones to make one’s coffee align with another’s bedtime routines, Delphine (D) sent an invitation to collaborate.
D: 'I have a potential project and was wondering if you’d like to work on a collaboration with me to make some sort of art/story together?'
Spoiler alert: the answer was an immediate yes.
We’ve both worked together before. Amy (A) has illustrated Delphine’s stories both in the Duets Anthologies and in Ghost Parachute and D has published A’s art and words in Raw Lit. We admire each other’s aesthetics and have enjoyed product and process, but this was an invitation to collaborate in process.
They were part of the clan. Even the younger girls had joined in.
D: 'The theme of the woman cycle got me thinking about the seasons…almost like seasonal vignettes.'
A: 'The doctor in me is geeking out over this! I think I’ll use hormone graphs and uterine lining as inspiration to create abstract and nature-inspired versions!'
D: 'Could the uterine layer function like roots that sustain the seasons?'
We chatted back and forth when our time zones collided, one waking up, the other preparing to sleep, a cycle of days and nights beginning with a nugget to mull over as we went through our days or something to sleep on.
The universe had just expanded. Or exploded. She wasn’t sure. But her universe suddenly filled
D: 'I just realised I've used that title before [...], so maybe it speaks to me more than I realise.'
‘Laughs more. Can breathe now.
Their spring a reminder of her autumn.'
'themes - belonging - having a voice - fertility - aging.'
A: 'Yes!!!! Doesn't need permission to be. :)'
'In many ways the vignettes to this point are reactive/reflections of others... and perhaps winter can be the death of that... and the echoing hope when the story ends is that she'll finally be herself and become?'
Asking questions of the story (which is unequivocally D’s work) and sharing overall world-views and perceptions as the story grew. Using imagery and text-conversations to influence the art (which was A’s, but full of references to D’s ideas).
It was so refreshing for Noor to decide what to eat, which movie to watch, what time to go to
Summer (noun): a period of maturing powers
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
D: 'The theme of the woman cycle got me thinking about the seasons…almost like seasonal vignettes.'
A: 'The doctor in me is geeking out over this! I think I’ll use hormone graphs and uterine lining as inspiration to create abstract and nature-inspired versions!'
D: 'Could the uterine layer function like roots that sustain the seasons?'
We chatted back and forth when our time zones collided, one waking up, the other preparing to sleep, a cycle of days and nights beginning with a nugget to mull over as we went through our days or something to sleep on.
The universe had just expanded. Or exploded. She wasn’t sure. But her universe suddenly filled
with so much love. Her heart exploded with joy.
Shhh-thump shhh-thump shhh-thump…
Shhh-thump shhh-thump shhh-thump…
Autumn (noun): a period of maturity or incipient decline
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
D: 'I just realised I've used that title before [...], so maybe it speaks to me more than I realise.'
‘Laughs more. Can breathe now.
Their spring a reminder of her autumn.'
'themes - belonging - having a voice - fertility - aging.'
A: 'Yes!!!! Doesn't need permission to be. :)'
'In many ways the vignettes to this point are reactive/reflections of others... and perhaps winter can be the death of that... and the echoing hope when the story ends is that she'll finally be herself and become?'
Asking questions of the story (which is unequivocally D’s work) and sharing overall world-views and perceptions as the story grew. Using imagery and text-conversations to influence the art (which was A’s, but full of references to D’s ideas).
bed without needing a whole discussion about any tiny, irrelevant decision. She could drink as
many cups of tea as she wanted without a single comment about it.
The walls sighed with contentment as she breathed in and out, waiting for the hot flash
The walls sighed with contentment as she breathed in and out, waiting for the hot flash
to dissipate.
A: 'If you want a measure of hope, potentially winter isn't inactivity/decay only (even in nature), it's also cocoon and hibernation and rest and preparation… the winter of the ovaries is sometimes the birth of the post-fertile woman and that's the largest growing demographic and a quite powerful one, too. So many women find their voice, their stride, their creativity, their power, their social impact after menopause.'
D: 'And yes, whales sing. And so will Noor by the time we're done.'
A: 'Menopausal orcas–like women–are pretty badass.'
Dolphins were pretty and smooth, but whales were strong and clever and sang beautifully.
And the piece came together. There are collaborations where the product itself is a joint effort. In this case, it was more like an ongoing conversation where the two products would not have come to be without the other’s input, but each product is the fruit of one artist’s work.
Winter (noun): a period of inactivity or decay
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary
A: 'If you want a measure of hope, potentially winter isn't inactivity/decay only (even in nature), it's also cocoon and hibernation and rest and preparation… the winter of the ovaries is sometimes the birth of the post-fertile woman and that's the largest growing demographic and a quite powerful one, too. So many women find their voice, their stride, their creativity, their power, their social impact after menopause.'
D: 'And yes, whales sing. And so will Noor by the time we're done.'
A: 'Menopausal orcas–like women–are pretty badass.'
Dolphins were pretty and smooth, but whales were strong and clever and sang beautifully.
And so would Noor.
And the piece came together. There are collaborations where the product itself is a joint effort. In this case, it was more like an ongoing conversation where the two products would not have come to be without the other’s input, but each product is the fruit of one artist’s work.
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