Without a Filter – The Story of My Body | Kamilla

When two artists meet, there is a good chance something unusual will be created. Kamilla painted the story of her life in words, blending reality with fiction; I translated it into images.

I am twenty years old, crying in the bathroom: "My father is going to kill me." "I don't want a child." Yet I don't want to hurt the baby. I love it immediately and stroke my stomach. Contradiction.

I get married. The parish priest refuses to marry us, saying that in my situation I do not have genuine freedom of choice. He tells me to come and talk to him and think it through. I think he is an asshole — years later I understand that he was the only person who looked at me with a clear heart and truly saw me. Another priest marries us.

Somehow, from the age of twenty, I increasingly watch myself from the outside and keep explaining to myself that everything will be fine. A beautiful family. Three children. That typical "mother brain" that makes it possible not to look at yourself because there is always someone else to live for. And often I really believe it.

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I play roles, as a perfectionist. I try to meet expectations. I try to please the parents of their only son — and perhaps this current crisis will finally lead my husband to cut the umbilical cord that should have been cut thirty years ago. I try beyond my limits, yet I am never enough, never good enough.

I cook every day. I am the one awake at night with the children. I take them everywhere.

My father becomes ill. He is forty-nine. When he is fifty, I bury the Man whose energy nobody around me has ever matched — the man I knew was a fortress. I collapse.

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I continue like a robot. I work, raise three children and run a household — and apparently never well enough. I am reminded of that constantly.

I don't feel that I matter to anyone. Lunch must be ready. Clothes must be clean. Homework must be done. The salary must be good. I am noticed only when something is missing.

I cry, I beg: I'm here. I'm empty. I'm tired.

"That's just your energy level. We're different. This is simply all you can handle," Mum says.

My husband does not hear me. Nobody hears me.

I make a decision and make it conscious: I have one life, and I am responsible for it. My happiness does not have to depend on somebody else.

I long for the feeling I imagine painting must bring. Life places the perfect person, the best teacher, in my path. I begin learning to draw, and two months later I paint my first picture. A wonderful friendship is born, a sense of family, paintings full of emotion. Qigong helps too.

I recharge. I become stronger. And I am endlessly grateful.

Now I know what I do not want.

I do not want to please everyone. I do not want to play roles. I do not care what others think. I do not want to be held to account. I do not want a golden cage. I do not want relationships built on hierarchy and dependence. I will not allow people to hurt me.

I realise that I am good enough.

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I realise that the hurt inflicted on me was not really about me.

Slowly, the people around me begin to understand what they are losing. It hurts — but unfortunately it comes too late.

For many years I could not truly experience it, but I love being a Woman. I love and accept the fluctuations of female existence. I experience them, and I want to experience every aspect of them.

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I love to love. I love to feel. I love being the way I am. And slowly, I am beginning to believe again that I can be loved.

Very much so.

Humanly, beautifully imperfect.

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Art photography – details.

Part of the BANHALMI ecosystem

For the professional context and practical side of portrait photography, visit the BANHALMI professional website. Related art series, books and exhibitions are preserved in the BANHALMI ART archive.