On May 3, 2023, I visited Vigelandsparken in Oslo, Norway with my moms and grandmother. The sculpture park houses Gustav Vigeland’s life’s work, including over 200 granite and bronze statues that represent the human condition both physically and emotionally. A few of the statues provided glimpses of myself and sparked the following vignettes.
Walking up to the bridge, her piercing stare floods my body and suddenly, I cannot move. Though she cannot speak, she calls to me, baby in arms, stony eyes emanating a silent plea toward the top of my head.
“You know,” she whispers. “Of all people, you know.”
As my eyes remain locked onto hers, I feel her immense exhaustion—the baby, keeping up appearances, being a good mother. A deep knowing passes between us, but I am frozen.
At first, she says no more. While I wait, I promise her that I understand. I study her eyes. In them, I see her as if I am the only person who has ever recognized this mother with the pleading gaze as a kindred spirit.
Soon, I notice the baby nestling into its mother’s shoulder, trusting the protection of her strong arms.
After a time, I tell the mother I must move on. Her gaze does not change. How long will I remain locked in her knowing stare? I allow the question to float away, and still, I wait.
After a few minutes, she says, “You and I, we’re not ‘natural’ mothers.”
With this recognition, my limbs loosen. I smile and thank her for seeing me. Released from the grip of her stare, I begin to cross the bridge. As I glance back over my shoulder for one last look at her stony form, I realize that rather than wanting to be saved from her lot in life, she simply wants to be seen. Like me, she wants to be known for all of who she is: a mother who loves her child and will protect him at the expense of her own life even as she remains deeply ambivalent about motherhood itself.
As the baby grows into a young boy, she delights in his round belly, soft features, innocent smile, and natural curiosity. In a relationship she does not fully understand, the boy experiences his body as a captivating site for exploration rather than a fraught battlefield upon which to wage the wars of social acceptability.
Before life settled into predictable patterns, she spent her days looking over her shoulder toward the horizon. Not afraid as if someone was watching or chasing her, but wistful, dreaming of a different life. She stared into the distance, plotting her departure until one day, she turned to stone, still waiting for the perfect moment to begin her adventure.
The woman with the spaghetti hair looks over her shoulder. One foot raised onto toes, hands lifting waist-length strands away from her head. A gleefully free pose, and yet she looks back, her expression neither fear nor joy but a kind of seriousness. Is it wonder? Curiosity? Perhaps she’s self-conscious of her unabashed display of freedom. She revels in her playful self, but she’s uncomfortable being on display. Is anyone looking? What are they thinking? Do they care what she’s doing in this moment of abandon? Are they judging? Approving? Critiquing? Wondering all these things, she keeps dancing as if no one’s watching.
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