In All Their Vulnerability

What motivated you to start this project?

It began with a family story. Six years before I was born, my parents had a daughter who lived for only six months—a sister I never knew. As a child, I would often accompany my parents to visit her grave. To me, she became an imaginary sister and friend. It wasn’t until 2019 that I learned the whole story. During the pregnancy, my mother’s concerns were dismissed by her doctor. After a challenging delivery, the baby was declared healthy. For six months, my sister was in and out of the hospital before she died. My uncle, who was training at the same hospital at the time, attempted to retrieve her medical records, but his efforts were unsuccessful.

I was furious when I uncovered the truth and saw the pain my mother still carried. Through online research, I discovered a term for what she had experienced: obstetric and gynaecological violence. This form of abuse has long been invisible and continues to receive little attention. I knew then—this would be my next project.

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How did you approach the project?

I love connecting the personal to broader social and political narratives—a recurring theme in all my work. During my online research, I discovered Ciao Lapo, an Italian organisation advocating for women before, during, and after pregnancy. I reached out to them and found resources like books and downloads on their website. A more meaningful collaboration later developed with the organisation Emma in Budapest.

I began my research close to home in Sardinia. My aunt, my mother’s sister, is the family archivist—she keeps everything. Among her belongings, she had a box of photos and documents related to my sister, including the form my father had signed to purchase her grave. I scanned these materials and incorporated some of them into an initial presentation during the COVID-19 pandemic in Milan, where I shared the early stages of my project. These personal artefacts offered a glimpse into my family’s history and became the foundation of the narrative I was building.

For that presentation, I also included scans of ultrasound images of unborn children collected during interviews with women who had experienced obstetric and gynaecological violence. However, I later decided to remove the ultrasounds from the project. Having met these women in their most vulnerable state, without the presence of a medical professional, I felt it would be exploitative to use their stories and imagery ‘for the sake of art.’

A subsequent series of interviews, conducted with a psychiatrist, focused on the men—like my father—who had witnessed the suffering firsthand. They all described feelings of suffocation and helplessness. To visualise this, I photographed them submerged underwater—some, like my father, in a pool, others in the sea.

One of these photos became part of an installation. The image reminded me of an unborn child ‘swimming’ in amniotic fluid. I constructed a glass room resembling a large incubator, and through a shower speaker, visitors could hear the men’s voices recounting their experiences. The installation also featured a silver photo frame from my aunt, identical to the one in which my mother keeps a portrait of my deceased sister by her bedside.

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You’ve had several exhibitions along the way.

That’s how I work. I typically spend four or five years on a single project, immersing myself in extensive research. I gather a wide range of stories and work with multiple media, including photography, text, archival material, and video. I only start shaping the final narrative once I’ve developed a comprehensive understanding of the subject. Along the way, interim feedback from exhibitions is invaluable in refining and advancing my work.

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Let’s return to Emma in Budapest.

In the summer of 2022, I visited Emma, a local NGO in Hungary. I observed one of their projects—a collaboration with doulas in a Roma community just outside Budapest. What Emma is doing in this community is incredible. They don’t act as protectors but empower the women. The team includes a medical expert, a legal expert, a sociologist, and an anthropologist. Together, they train the doulas, who have a dual role in this community. They not only support women during childbirth but also act as witnesses, helping to address the systemic racism that deeply affects these women both physically and psychologically. Over time, the doulas have grown into strong advocates for their community. They have now begun training a new generation of doulas themselves, continuing the cycle of empowerment.

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You joined Emma’s team. What did you do?

I photographed the doulas with young mothers and babies. These photos were for Emma—they used them to apply for an important social award. For my own work, I took different photos where the women were unrecognisable. I’m presenting these for the first time here in Amsterdam during my residency at FUTURES.

In February, I’ll return to Budapest to create a video with the team and Vicky, the head doula—a strong and inspiring figure. By 2025, the entire project will be complete. I plan to create an installation with multiple rooms—one dedicated to my sister’s story, one for the men, one for Emma and the doulas, and one for the women enduring this suffering.

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It’s inspiring to hear how passionate you are.

Every time I speak to a woman who has experienced obstetric or gynaecological violence, the anger about what happened to my mother and sister resurfaces. How is it possible that someone in such a vulnerable position is neither protected nor respected? What does this say about how our society views the female body? For many, the lack of resources to sue a doctor and seek justice only deepens the pain, leaving them to carry it for the rest of their lives.