When I was 15 my doctor told me that it would be difficult for me to have children. She said there was something wrong with my eggs. All I could think about then, was the chickens in my mom's garden. How they carefully covered their eggs, wanting that someday they would hatch. I usually had to stroke their feathers, to remove the egg from their shelter, to bring it back inside, to the frying pan.
The first objects we learn are domestic. Plate, cup, fruit and eggs. You learn their shape and colour, traits and qualities. Water is in the cup, and fruit is on the plate. But they can both break if you throw them on the floor. But the fruit will only bruise, while the egg shatters. As a woman you are often confronted with your own ability to reproduce. That the clock is ticking, eggs are disappearing and you are becoming obsolete. The duality of the meaning of objects is exhilarating, that an egg is both totally conventional, yet also exceptional.
I am trying to make you look closely at something, To examine an egg.
