This is one of the first fine art projected completed during my time in college, and I remain proud of it. As an 18-year-old girl, as I started to contemplate my own being, I also started to contemplate what it even meant to be "had," to be "possessed," or "wanted" by someone. Why was I programmed to feel desire towards romantic claustrophobia? Why did I only feel beautiful when I was being consumed?

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My body started to feel like not my own. In my mirror, I didn't see myself as I was, but instead how they may see me -- what men might think of my jeans, or if they would notice my bra through my shirt, or if they may even telepathically pick up on the music in my headphones (it was cool, I swear). But, as soon as they did, I started to seize. Twist, warp, shrink under their gaze. My ribs felt like a prison. 

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Life is a series of mirrors: reflections and extensions of yourself that exist without you asking for them. These conjured images came alive through the perpetual reflection of womanhood, the idea that you are never truly complete on your own. To be complete, you must contort.