Germany, 1993 

Demolding a Daughter

When I see pictures of my mother when she was young, I see a woman who doesn’t need me. She is not thinking about me, not thinking that I will become the most important person in her life, as she says. Back then it was her art first, later it was me. I would have liked to have met her back then. But maybe not. She seems so independent. Would she have liked me?