It started because I was sick of scraping bubblegum out of my kids’ hair, carpet, school uniforms, and car seats. So I began chewing it myself: spitting it out, rolling it into tiny balls, pressing it into silicone moulds and letting them set like offerings on a suburban altar. Sickly-sweet, flesh-toned, and tacky, these spit-slicked impressions have been made on and off for years. In between griefs. In between loads of washing. In between school pickups and breakdowns.
Some are smooth as boiled lollies, others cratered and collapsing. They cling to the edges of painting, sculpture, and rot. Each one carries spit, breath, muscle memory, and the ghost of a bad day. They’re devotional and a bit disgusting. Memento mori for mothers. Part ritual. Part revenge.
Not all of them survived. Some melted in the heat, got stuck to notebooks, or were swept up and thrown out. Like so much else made in maternal margins, they weren’t always documented. But they’re still there, somewhere: stubborn little artefacts that remember exactly what kind of body made them and dare you to look anyway.