Otras mujeres
Pies de fotos
pp. 8-9 FABIANA
Entrevisté a Fabiana en los inicios del proyecto. Tuvimos una muy linda conversación y, cuando terminamos, me expresó que no quería que apareciera su rostro en la foto. Me concentré entonces en la atmósfera y el entorno. Poco después de conocernos, ella se iría a vivir a París para hacer un doctorado en antropología.
p. 11 Vista desde la ventana del comedor de Fabiana, en el séptimo piso de un edificio en San Pablo.
pp. 13, 14 CAROLINA
Me llaman la atención los detalles y la dedicación que pone Carolina para crear sus espacios. Algunas son obras de amigos y amigas, que la acompañan y llenan de luz su casa.
p. 15 Carolina en su ritual de cuidado personal.
p. 17 Flores que recoge del huerto de su familia.
pp. 18-19,20 MARIANA
Mariana vive en una de las islas del delta del Paraná. Para llegar a su casa hay que tomar una lancha colectiva que atraviesa ríos y arroyos. Ahí construyó el hogar donde imagina vivir su vejez.
p. 21 Mariana me comparte fotos de la India y otros países que visitó. Cada vez que tiene oportunidad, se “escapa”. Ama la sensación de libertad que le provoca viajar.
pp. 22-23 Mariana saca un colchón y se tira a leer el periódico o un libro al cobijo de la sombra. Así son las sutiles maneras en que habita su tiempo en la isla.
p. 25 GUADALUPE
Buck es el tercer perro guía de Lupita. Durante un mes recibieron juntos un entrenamiento en la escuela Leader Dogs for the Blind en Rochester, Michigan, Estados Unidos, donde se emparejaron las personalidades de ambos para poder funcionar como binomio.
pp. 26-27 “¿Has considerado a una mujer ciega en tu proyecto?”. Me estremecí cuando me contó que viajó desde Puebla a Oaxaca para conocerme personalmente porque se sintió identificada con Otras mujeres (Museo de Arte Contemporáneo de Oaxaca, 2017). A las demás mujeres que entrevisté, tuve que buscarlas, pero en el caso de Guadalupe fue ella quien me contactó.
pp. 28-29 La observo leer. En algún momento me revela: “Leo para hacer contacto con la escritura”. Sé que también lo hace para practicar idiomas, conocer fábulas y estudiar otras culturas.
p. 31 Lupita ubica cuidadosamente muebles y objetos. Nunca los mueve, para evitar tropiezos. Tiene pocas pertenencias, pero bien elegidas. Sobre sus libros en braille, coloca un frágil y bello florero.
pp. 32-33 RONDA
Conocí a Ronda cuando realizaba una investigación sobre la sostenibilidad de la industria del mezcal.
Las mujeres están involucradas en todos los niveles de la producción de esta bebida pero, aun así, luchan para que su trabajo sea reconocido en un oficio dominantemente masculino.
p 34 Ronda en el Exconvento de Santo Domingo de Guzmán en la ciudad de Oaxaca, declarada Patrimonio Cultural de la Humanidad por la UNESCO en 1987. Durante sus estancias, Ronda se aloja en el centro de la ciudad para poder recorrerla cómodamente. Ella valora sus expresiones artísticas y gastronómicas, así como los sitios históricos y arquitectónicos.
p 35 Piñas y fibras de maguey en un horno bajo tierra, revestido con piedras, quemadas por Reyna Sánchez, maestra mezcalera, para la producción artesanal del mezcal.
p. 39
ÁNGELA
Ángela transforma en obras de arte los cartuchos de película que utilizaba cuando era fotógrafa.
pp. 40-41 Algunas de las obras que ha expuesto en galerías y museos están integradas en paredes y espacios de su casa. Sus obras representan retos y cuestionamientos sobre su vida y sus decisiones.
pp. 42-43 NATACHA
Rían conoció a Natacha en el proyecto Mujeres en espiral y quiso presentarnos. Natacha estuvo injustamente presa durante diez años en la cárcel de Santa Martha Acatitla (Ciudad de México). Yo estaba por entrevistarla ahí, pero afortunadamente salió antes de lo previsto. Nuestro encuentro fue luminoso y creo que nos hizo bien a las dos.
Como Natacha es francesa, no tenía familia cercana con quien vivir. Nuestras primeras charlas fueron en la casa de los amigos que la hospedaban y en el parque de Coyoacán, uno de los primeros lugares que conoció al salir de prisión.
pp. 44, 45 En mis viajes posteriores a Ciudad de México nos seguimos viendo. Un día me contó que había conseguido un cuarto de azotea, de precio accesible, y sentía que por fin podía continuar con sus proyectos, como el colectivo La Boussole, a través del cual realiza actividades artísticas para reflexionar sobre la violencia y discriminación que enfrentan las mujeres privadas de libertad, de sus hijos y familiares.
pp. 46-47 GISELA
“A mis amigas las asusta este retrato que compré en un bazar”, dice Gisela mientras señala una de las piezas de su colección. Para matizar la aversión que sentían sus amistades, le pintó moños y encajes rosas al vestido de la niña del cuadro.
p. 48 A partir de una imagen de la artista Loretta Lux, interviene un anillo que diseñó en su etapa hippie. El tema de la infancia está presente tanto en su arte como en sus investigaciones como socióloga.
p. 49 “No sé quién se quedará con todo esto cuando me muera. ¿A quién podría importarle?”, se pregunta Gisela. Ella pasa tiempo en bazares y tiendas de antigüedades en busca de algo que la sorprenda. En su colección hay ropa para niños, juguetes, libros, utilitarios, estampitas y tipografías móviles. Clasifica con esmero estos fragmentos de la historia que ya forman parte de su vida cotidiana.
pp. 50-51 DEYANIRA
En el istmo de Tehuantepec, los trajes típicos o huipiles ocupan un lugar especial. Algunas familias suelen guardarlos en baúles de cedro, decorados con flores. Estos huipiles tradicionales representan una gran inversión, por eso requieren un cuidado singular y se lucen con mucho orgullo en las fiestas patronales. Deyanira acomoda los trajes, que piensa legar a sus sobrinas.
p. 52
Deyanira colecciona botellas vacías de perfumes que le han regalado y tienen un significado especial en su vida. Los perfumes la fascinan tanto como las flores.
p. 53
Deyanira tiene en su recámara un altar donde dispone objetos religiosos junto al retrato de su madre. Para ella, es muy fuerte el vínculo afectivo con su familia zapoteca; habla su lengua y prepara comida istmeña. Así reafirma su identidad indígena y su orgullo como ixhuateca.
pp. 54-55
Deyanira elige Aguachil —la playa de su infancia— para ser retratada. Su padre fue pescador, y aún hoy parte de su familia se dedica a la comercialización del camarón. Luce un traje regional del istmo y en la mano lleva un resplandor, que es una especie de tocado de cabeza que usan las mujeres en las festividades tradicionales, cuando van a la iglesia.
p. 57 ZOILA
Estos son los objetos preciados de Zoila, más conocida como la Doctora Coca. Ella es médica cirujana, y desde sus inicios asistió a obstetras en el Instituto Mexicano del Seguro Social, para luego dedicarse a la partería tradicional.
pp. 58-59 Con la ayuda de un estetoscopio Pinard, Zoila escucha el latido del corazón de un ser humano de siete meses de gestación. Desde hace treinta y tres años acompaña a mujeres durante el embarazo y el parto. En 2018 fundó Diosas de la Oxitocina, un espacio para la transmisión de saberes donde atienden a mujeres que desean ser o no ser madres.
pp 62-63 Zoila utiliza el fuego para cortar el cordón umbilical en un parto natural. Prefiere el calor al frío de las tijeras. Esta práctica lleva cerca
de quince minutos y ayuda a evitar infecciones, porque cauteriza la zona intervenida.
pp. 64-65 Cuando Zoila me contó de la Santa María, inmediatamente le pedí que fuéramos a recorrer las calles para encontrarla. No deja de asombrarme que una planta de apariencia silvestre pueda ser utilizada para interrumpir un embarazo o para inducir el parto. Para ella, es importante todo conocimiento que tenga que ver con la protección y el cuidado de las mujeres.
p. 66
CLAUDIA MARÍA
“Antes no me gustaba mi cicatriz y me la tapaba, pero ahora ya no me importa”, me confiesa Claudia María en el momento en que le tomo este retrato. A los dieciocho años la operaron de un soplo en el corazón. Esta experiencia radical la hizo pensar de otro modo en su existencia y en la vida que deseaba tener.
p. 67 Claudia María trabaja de lunes a viernes como empleada doméstica. Eso le da la posibilidad de aprender peluquería o de disfrutar los fines de semana en compañía de su pareja y su mascota, o invitar a amigas y amigos a un asado en su terraza.
p. 69 Claudia María vive en un barrio popular de Buenos Aires con Colón, su compañero desde hace treinta años. Cuando se conocieron, él ya tenía un hijo. Ella cuenta que esto le dio la tranquilidad de saber que no insistiría en tener uno con ella.
pp. 70-71 RUFINA
Rufina es una defensora del papel de las mujeres tanto en su historia personal como en la tradición alfarera. Tomó cursos en el Centro de las Artes de San Agustín (CaSa) en Oaxaca, que abrieron nuevos caminos en su práctica artística.
p 73 A lo largo de su vida, Rufina tuvo varios trabajos, para finalmente dedicarse de lleno a la alfarería, tradición de su familia y su comunidad. Ella mantiene vivo el fuego enseñando a nuevas generaciones los secretos del trabajo con barro.
p 74 Quema de platos, tazas y vasos en un horno de adobe, en su taller en Atzompa.
p 75 Una vez, jugando con el barro, hizo una silueta femenina que inmediatamente rompió.
Ante la mirada desconcertada de su hermana, le dijo: “Estoy partiendo a la Rufis, ahora va a ser otra; la que conocían ya cambió”.
pp. 76-77 ALEJANDRA
Conocí a Alejandra en la exposición Otras mujeres, organizada por la Galería Gronefot en Santiago de Chile. Cuando la invité a participar, ella consideraba que su historia podría no ser relevante para el proyecto. Al siguiente año volví a buscarla y, por suerte, aceptó. Su historia fue reveladora para mí por la singularidad de su testimonio, que amplió la diversidad de experiencias en torno a la decisión.
p. 78 Alejandra cultiva plantas que selecciona cuidadosamente para armonizar su departamento.
p. 79 Objetos y fotografías familiares en la entrada de la casa de Alejandra.
pp. 80-81 LISA
“Mi vida artística empezó a desarrollarse después del suicidio de mi padre”, me cuenta Lisa. “De mi familia, él era el que tenía un vínculo con el arte y con quien ahora podría compartir lo que hago. Creo que mi papá no estaba hecho para tener hijos, y me siento muy parecida a él”.
p. 82 Lisa posa con algunas de sus instalaciones impresas en acrílico.
p. 83 Lisa ha representado a su familia en varias de sus obras. En la mesa de su casa-estudio ha colocado uno de sus proyectos artísticos, que muestra las siluetas de su mamá y su papá abrazados, y la de ella, en medio de sus dos primos.
pp. 86-87 AZUCENA
Azucena camina con frecuencia por la playa Areamilla, en la ría de Vigo. Por las mañanas la luz es estupenda y se ven las islas Cíes de fondo. Contemplar el mar desde las rocas es una de sus pasiones.
pp 88-89 Jaulas para la pesca de cangrejos, en Pontevedra, España.
p 90 Líquenes y roca cerca del mar. Este paisaje pétreo me hace pensar en las distintas
conversaciones y procesos que van aflorando en lo sólido de cada decisión.
p. 91 Azucena, en Marín, Pontevedra, España.
p. 93 EMILIA
Emilia y yo somos amigas desde hace quince años. Fue con ella con quien empecé a dialogar y reflexionar en voz alta sobre la decisión de no tener descendencia. Nunca me imaginé a dónde me llevaría todo este recorrido.
p. 94 Entre conversación y conversación y después de una larga sesión de fotos en la azotea de su casa-estudio, surgió esta imagen.
p. 96 Emilia tuvo un vínculo muy cercano con su madre. Sus tres hermanos varones tienen hijos, pero a ella nunca le reprochó su decisión de no tenerlos. En el altar que construyó colocó una foto donde se la ve de joven junto a su madre, esculturas que eran de su abuela y un nicho de madera, recuerdo de un querido amigo.
p. 97 CLAUDIA
Claudia y su esposo Félix hacen reuniones frecuentes y tienen una intensa vida social y bohemia. Para la vejez, imaginan una casa compartida con los integrantes de su “familia disfuncional”, como ella llama a su red solidaria de amigas y amigos. Una casa donde puedan vivir de manera independiente, pero con áreas comunes.
pp. 98-99 Claudia en viaje a Ancud, después de dar una charla pública en Puerto Montt sobre la decisión de no tener hijos.
pp. 100-101 Así empezaron nuestras primeras charlas, viajando en el litoral chileno, en compañía de Mónica y Jorge, amigos que me presentaron a Claudia y Félix.
p. 105 RENATA
Renata en los baños termales de Gellért, un descanso entre las dos exposiciones de Otras mujeres en Eslovenia y Polonia. Juntas dimos también dos charlas públicas.
pp. 106-107 Compartimos con Renata un temazcal en Capulalpam, en la Sierra Norte de Oaxaca. El temazcal es un baño de vapor ceremonial y terapéutico tradicional de Mesoamérica. Representa el vientre de la madre y la vuelta al origen.
pp. 108-109 Paseo por el Jardín Botánico, espacio vivo y esperanzador que Renata disfruta, y que se confronta a toda esa historia del horror de una Varsovia bombardeada por los nazis.
pp. 110-111 NORMA
Norma pasea a Khali por la presa del Boquerón. Su trabajo le deja poco tiempo libre, pero cuando puede, sale a disfrutar del paisaje y del agua.
pp. 112-113 En Tlaxiaco conocí a Norma, quien nació y vivió por varios años en Ciudad de México. En 2018 decidió retornar a Oaxaca, la tierra de sus padres, en busca de mejores condiciones de vida y trabajo.
pp. 114,115 En 2018, Norma volvió a habitar y dar vida a la casa de su familia, abandonada desde hacía cincuenta años, cuando migraron a Ciudad de México.
pp. 117, 118 JUDITH
Autorretrato con la única foto que guardo de mi madre, ya fallecida, cuando estaba embarazada de mí, en 1975.
Agradezco a quienes han contribuido a la realización de este proyecto.
Principalmente a las 19 protagonistas, por su confianza y por haberme ayudado a comprender la potencia de luchar por nuestros derechos y deseos.
p 3 The desire for children is neither constant nor universal. Since the possibility of choosing existed, there has been a diversity of options and we can no longer speak of instinct or universal desire. Of all the decisions that human beings face in life, this is the one that entails the most radical change.
Elisabeth Badinter
The Conflict: How Modern Motherhood Undermines the Status
of Women
Other Women Testimonies
p 10 FABIANA
SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL, 2014
I have decided not to have children. I don’t know what comes next in my life. What I know is that this decision is final.
I think people are freer to decide nowadays. However, when you say that you don’t want to have children, there are still people who believe that it’s because you don’t like children, or because your heart was broken, or because you have some physical problem that prevents you from having them. In Brazil, people think that having children is something that should happen automatically in our lives, as if we all have to go down that path. These people think I’m weird. Anyone who is outside the norm, who steps out of the circle, will be questioned.
p. 16
CAROLINA
SANTIAGO DE CHILE, CHILE, 2017
It’s a strange time for women because biology hasn’t changed, but women’s lives have. We still have our first period at the same age, menopause at the same age, our window of fertility remains the same. But our lives and stories come with an 80-year life expectancy. So, at 25 you’re just finding yourself, reflecting on who you are, what you like, what you don’t like. From that age on you have 10 years or so to have children—it’s especially hard for women who are professionals or who have a career that they are invested in. Until you are 30 you are in school and moving around: so, our biological window today is out of sync with women’s real lives, which is not the case with men. Then, especially when you’re approaching 35 or 38, it’s crunch time. You are faced with the decision: it’s
now or never. And the pressure builds; the pressure that comes from within. The pressure that others put on us comes at an earlier stage, when we are younger, and may want to be ‘normal’. My mother’s chief concern, when I didn’t talk much about having children, was, “Who is going to take care of you?”
Men take very little control over their fertility: if they put on a condom at all, it’s because they know about sexually transmitted diseases, not necessarily because of birth control. I’ve seen very few men make decisions like “this is the last child I’m going to have, and then I’m going to have a vasectomy.”
Sometimes people have a hard time categorizing me. To make it easier for them, they label me as a ‘woman who couldn’t have children’, assuming that I had tried and wasn’t successful, without asking me whether it was my choice.
p. 20 MARIANA
TIGRE, BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA, 2015
The decision not to have children is not unequivocal. It can be, but it is layered by time, by events. It is a construction of ‘no’. It is wonderful because it’s a form of resistance.
I think that here in Argentina, the issue of lesbianism is more open than in any other country in Latin America. But I feel that even in the gay world there is a push to reproduce the heteronormative. For example, talking about gay marriage and adoption is important in legal and juridical terms, in terms of law. But why endorse a structure that’s not necessary?
I don’t believe in the maternal instinct, in fact my ex, who had a daughter, once told me, “I had to learn how to relate to my daughter, it didn’t come naturally.” I like the term ‘instinct to desire’. The idea of one child [implies] another person, the one with whom that desire exists.
p 24 GUADALUPE CHOLULA, PUEBLA, MEXICO, 2019
I have strong enough self-esteem to go against the grain. People with disabilities rarely finish their degrees. They say, “What are you studying for? Maybe you can’t even do anything with it.” If I had listened to everything they told me, maybe I would have a child to take care of. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but it’s not the only thing I was going to be good for.
Life isn’t just living smart, but with the courage to accept yourself and what you are, which is not necessarily what you had been told you could be. I have to fight like any other woman, but a little harder: not only do I have to fight in a man’s world, but I have to fight in a sighted world.
Now I’m in my 40s, but when I was 28, I decided not to have children. I had seen that people followed tradition and not conviction. We live in a very chaotic world, full of contradictions, of double standards.
Sexuality for people with disabilities is generally dismissed, as if we don’t have hormones! Hormones don’t know if you’re one-handed, blind, or one-eyed; hormones react in your body. I am open to having partners, but I am always responsible. I am careful not to get pregnant. I am also careful to avoid sexually transmitted diseases.
I’ve learned to live with myself. Being the way I am, has led me to have a peace and tranquility with myself that I never would have imagined I’d achieve.
I’m a person of few things. As you can see, my life is minimalist. I don’t have anything saved, but not because I can’t see: that’s just the way I am. I think that, in a way, this is my way of letting go of the dead. I talk about my own blindness, because for me having eyes that don’t work is like carrying a dead body around with you every day.
p. 36
RONDA OAXACA, MEXICO, 2015
Before we got married in the Catholic Church, we went to a marriage counseling session in Albuquerque, USA. It’s a workshop where you meet with a priest and talk to other couples. In a way they try to convince you not to
use contraception. At the end, you have to answer a series of questions and share those with your partner. I remember one of the questions was whether you’re open to motherhood. That’s when I wrote that I wasn’t sure. I said I didn’t want to have children. I don’t know why, but I put that questionnaire away and after a while, when he started pressuring me to have a child, I took out the piece of paper, showed it to him and said, “You knew from the beginning that I wasn’t sure I wanted to have a child.” We got divorced—but not because of the baby issue.
It bothers me when some colleagues tell me to do certain things at work because I “don’t have kids.” As if not having children meant not having commitments and many other things to do. I get a lot of satisfaction from what I do, and, in addition, I think that because I don’t have children I can devote more attention to the people I love.
p 37 ÁNGELA PUEBLA, MEXICO, 2019
My aunt Eloina was the spinster of the family, she was a young woman, spoken of with great pity. This reminds me of those phrases that were said in the ’70s in Veracruz: “She was left to dress saints”, “Poor thing, she didn’t have children”, “Poor thing, she didn’t get married”, “There was no one to do her the favor”. Can there be anything more degrading? What for my aunt was a [life] sentence, for me was a choice: the decision not to have children. And how did I get to that point? In my case, it was a very early decision that, as time went by, was reaffirmed.
I remember seeing my mother and aunt suffer. My aunt used to say, “Bad with them [children], worse without them.”
And I said then, “Do you have to stay with them, even if it’s bad?” I always saw couples suffering from having children. I didn’t like that idea of sacrifice, nor did I like the stereotype of self-denial.
I was fortunate that, in my sophomore year, I belonged to a Communist Youth group. At that time, Mao’s Little Red Book, which talked about contraceptive methods, explained that you could go to a doctor even if you were a minor, and that he could prescribe contraceptives, and that
he had no right to accuse you or your mother or father. It was an Argentinian edition, but they said it was an international ethic and that it could not be violated.
There was no sex education, except for the biology teacher who taught us a little bit about hygiene, what the condom was, and what happened with ejaculation. But I’m talking about ’72 or ’73, at that time in high school, it wasn’t a thing you could talk about. It was another time, in which our education was with ourselves, when you told your classmate: “But, silly, why didn’t you go to the health center to get a condom? You should have gone to buy a condom!” This seemed like a very complex and difficult thing.
My mom insisted a lot, she was very sad that I didn’t have a child and that I was left alone. She told me: “Buy yourself a puppy.” I know she meant it affectionately because she was concerned about me.
p. 44 NATACHA
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO, 2017-2018
My decision not to have children began a long time ago. I had an abortion when I was 22, with my parents’ support. I was still living at home. The pregnancy was a mistake, and I took responsibility because I believe that a child is born out of love. I wasn’t working then, I wasn’t stable, and my partner was a loser. I could see I didn’t have a future with him. At that age you want to have fun, enjoy sex, but not pay the price of bringing a child into this world. The decision I made was common sense, it wasn’t the right time, and I knew I had to terminate the pregnancy. Doing so didn’t traumatize me either. I found a partner at work, he was sexist, he wanted me to get pregnant. He brought me flowers that he bought with my money. I said, “Yes, you want me to get pregnant, but then who’s going to work?” I had to leave a job where I was doing well, all to get away from him because if I didn’t, there would be hell to pay. There was more and more pressure, to the point where I had to run away. I lived through hell without even having children. There are mothers who are slaves to their children. Having children is something you are
going to dedicate your whole life to, but you also want to fulfill your desires, so it’s difficult.
There’s a prejudice that if you don’t have kids, you don’t know what it’s like.
When you’re in prison, you’re in the hole 24 hours a day. There I discovered the world of women; I couldn’t conceive the idea that a woman would be interested in me. I can’t say I like women; I can rather say when I got interested, how long I’ve wanted a woman. It was a woman who pulled the rug out from under me, it was a woman who shook up my world and moral codes, everything. We formalized our relationship and got married. I don’t feel less of a woman, or less feminine, because I don’t have children. It seems that there is an implication that because we don’t have children, we aren’t maternal. There are women who are born to have children and there are women born not to have them.
p 48
GISELA BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA, 2015
I know that my decision has a political impact. On the one hand, when you have children, there is a relationship with death that soothes you because, in a way, you want to die before your children. But, on the other hand, now I see in my mom that other anguish that you’re going to die and then, you won’t be able to be with your children anymore. Pregnancy for me is unthinkable. To a certain extent I would say that I reject it; I feel that it would make me crazy, I never saw it as something idyllic. I don’t want to be tied to the responsibilities of motherhood, I want to do other things that give me satisfaction. Maybe that’s why they tell me I’m self-centered. I wish my parents had had another daughter, another one who fulfilled their wishes. I don’t feel like I am fully female, there’s something androgynous about me. I don’t know, but I wasn’t a girly girl; and I’m not now either. I don’t consider myself a man or a woman: of course, physically I’m a woman.
Sometimes they tell you, “Until you have a child you won’t know what life is” or that “a child is the most important thing in life.” Maybe that’s true. Even from a sociological
point of view, I agree that that experience is important. But I don’t need to have children to imagine the experience of being a mother.
p 52 DEYANIRA AGUACHIL / IXHUATÁN / OAXACA, MEXICO, 2017-2020
Ever since I was a child, I was very independent. I left my hometown when I was 14. I lived away from my family and built a different life for myself. I can say that my spirit was libertarian and never tied to circumstances or places. My decision not to become a mother was a process that came naturally, but socially, it was difficult. Considering how my generation was raised, having decided to not have children meant being singled out more by other women. Motherhood was a subject we didn’t even question, it was thought to be a kind of ‘natural order’. When I was young, I couldn’t sleep with a man, because it was a sin. If I did, I wouldn’t be ‘worth it’ anymore. That’s what my grandmother and mother told me about ‘virginity’. My sister got married, and when she had her second baby, the man left her, telling my parents to support her because he was going off to finish his degree. He never came back for her.
I faced dangerous obstacles, with many twists and turns. I think I matured at a very young age. If it had been up to my mom, I would have gotten married at 15. She told me I was going to marry [a certain] woman’s son. I cried to my grandmother, “I don’t want to get married, that’s ugly.” I always found solace in my grandmother; she helped me get ahead. I could have been married, two or three times, up until I was 38. But the man would tell me, “I have my job, I make money.” I always saw faults in them: this one is a leech, that one is jealous. The years went by, and I saw that I could do it on my own.
p. 60 ZOILA
OAXACA, MEXICO, 2019-2023
I am overwhelmed when I see the power of the women I guide through birth. It takes a lot of
work and strength to give birth, but choosing not to give birth also takes a lot of strength.
I realized that I enjoy accompanying women in birth, making them feel safe, so that they can give birth without a cesarean section. I accompany them emotionally, that’s my mission. I can be there with them, trusting, with a lot of empathy.
For me, deciding not to have biological children was important. I am the tenth child, and I knew that my mother was a paridora—she gave birth to all her babies at home, completely confidently. It was something natural for me.
I have argued with older midwives who tell us that we should accompany life, not death. There are some that are very radical, especially older women from 70 to 85 years old. For me, the most important thing is the woman’s decision, and if it is not the time for them to continue with their pregnancy, I give them my help without any reservations, just like in midwifery.
I was raped when I was 20 years old. When I talked about it with a brother of mine, he held me responsible and blamed me. He said to me: “You idiot. What’s more, don’t even think of telling mom because it’ll make her sick.” I didn’t know what to do. In the end I didn’t tell him anything else and I didn’t know what to do for the next few days because I didn’t get my period. I knew I didn’t want to be pregnant; I didn’t want to be pregnant because of being raped. When I finally got my period, I thanked the world and the universe, whatever it was, for not being pregnant.
I was in the sex crimes unit where I treated women who had been raped and gave them preventive treatment—what we now know as the morning-after pill. In 2011, a person came from the Isthmus who knew doctors who performed abortions. The truth is that I liked him a lot and he gave me some tips on how to administer medication for women who had decided to terminate their pregnancies. Obviously in 2011 this was not legal. I was already a doctor, I had already been working for the prosecutor’s office, [and] I had that lived experience of being raped. There were networks of feminist comrades who sent people to me so that I could help them get a clandestine abortion. It was
like the underground. The only one I’ve used is Santa María, which can stimulate contractions. It has two functions: it can be used to terminate pregnancy or to induce labor. Plus, it’s a weed you can get anywhere. It grows a lot even in the streets, on the sidewalks.
In my experience, I’ve realized that the physical has a strong effect on emotions. When women don’t feel guilt, the process is much faster; whereas, when they have the idea that they are doing something wrong, everything is more complicated. I talk about all this in the first interview with them. I always tell them that what they have decided at that moment is the right decision, without judging them. Many live with guilt because it has been said that this is a sin, that you are taking the life of a human being.
p 68
CLAUDIA MARÍA BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA, 2015
We are ten siblings with the same mother but different fathers. I am the fifth child. My mother had me when she was 30. None of us grew up together, my mom scattered us in different homes: she asked relatives who needed someone to help them [to take us in].
I’m 48 years old, I’ll finish ninth grade at 51. I am now in third grade. I was always ashamed that I wasn’t educated; I could read, but my handwriting was terrible. No one has ever supported me with the work I have done. I have been alone since I was a child. It was normal for me not to go to school.
At the age of 14, I became a ‘woman’... I didn’t even know what was happening to me; I only remember that I was riding a bike with my cousin and when I got off it was stained with blood. I was very young when I found out I was pregnant; I was 17. I didn’t tell him or my family about the situation I was in. I didn’t want to say anything because, when a cousin got pregnant, the man ended up abandoning her. And this dumb way of thinking made me say nothing. So, I decided to have an abortion, without knowing the risk involved for an abortion at four months. My cousin (who is like a father to me) helped me by taking me out of the hospital because, since I was a minor, I would have gone straight
to reform school. After the abortion, I decided that I would never experience something like that again, so I used contraceptives for a while.
I am the only one of my sisters who decided not to have children. They also had very hard lives. If I had stayed in Catamarca, I would have had lots of children, because life is different there, women are meant to scrub floors and take care of the children. I see it in my sisters and my nieces who are young, all with tons of kids.
p 72 RUFINA
ATZOMPA, OAXACA, MEXICO, 2021-2022
My mom got married very young, at 16, and had 11 children. I feel that, from her very personal experience, she decided: “My daughters are not going to be treated the same way I was treated.” She was widowed at a very young age. Hers is an exemplary life: imagine struggling to get ahead with 11 kids. Eight of my siblings are professionals, [and] I studied accounting. My mother, all her life, as well as our ancestors—my great-greatgrandparents, my great-grandparents, my grandmother—all worked with clay. Everyone in the village where I live is a potter.
In my case I decided not to reproduce. I don’t have children. For me it is an honor to teach my craft to young men or women who come and want to learn, because they are my seeds that will fly away and germinate. Where to? Who knows? They will go far. I always say that this is a chain: they taught me, I teach, and you teach others so that this art is not lost. I like to teach.
I’ve had to deal with people who have told me: “You can’t do this, you can’t do that…, you’re no good. You, as a woman, are worthless.” [and] “You have to accept these conditions because you are a woman.” That’s what stings the most and, to be honest, I’m very stubborn. So, I say to myself, “Yes I can; yes, I can.”
I always say that for me the most sacred thing has been to be born, to grow up, and eat from the clay. [To be] in the process of learning, of struggle, that’s the tradition, it’s tattooed into you.
I never imagined myself as a stay-athome mom. My mind was always—travel, grow, meet more people, know other directions
and horizons. I was never tied to anything, I never dreamed of having children. Machismo is strong here, women are for the bed, the kitchen, and children. First, I ran away from marriage, then I grew into the idea of not having children. I always saw that there were a lot of expectations. I always saw a ‘but’ and thought “this relationship isn’t going to work”; or maybe the one who wasn’t going to work anymore was me.
p 78 ALEJANDRA
SANTIAGO DE CHILE, CHILE, 2017
It’s something I’ve always taken for granted; it’s never been an issue for me. I was never driven to be a mother, it is not something that I need to feel fulfilled, nor to feel happy. At 31 I had a bone marrow transplant, which involves a lot of things: super strong chemotherapies that kill every cell in your body.
I suffered because I saw that my parents and my sister suffered, they were very worried about me. I didn’t fear for my life, I never thought that anything would happen to me, that is probably also the survival instinct. And, of course, in the middle of this madness they told me to freeze my eggs because later on, I’d want to have children and I wouldn’t be able to. My answer was no: I don’t ever want to. If I had had the slightest doubt, I would have done it, but I didn’t; I’m very happy with that decision. It’s an internal, personal decision. My mother doesn’t understand, she doesn’t understand what I’m trying to do, but I’ve been working on our relationship. The mother/daughter relationship is always super difficult, at least in my case. She was raised like that, that’s her generation. I don’t even get mad at her anymore; I feel tender towards her, she does it out of concern. I don’t pretend to understand her, but I’m not going to fight it.
p. 84 LISA
BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA, 2015
I never thought about being a mother. I have no memories of dreaming or thinking about having children. Never in my life did I imagine myself pregnant. It’s a thought
process. It’s hard to define how I reached this decision, it’s something so deep inside me that it’s as if it has always existed.
I decided not to have children because I think it’s the biggest commitment a person can make. It’s not that I’m afraid of it, or that I’m not brave. But it is a decision that I have made fully and accepted. I don’t follow the cultural mandate. I don’t experience the decision not to have children as something extraordinary; I experience it as something natural.
Bringing someone into this world doesn’t excite me. I’m pro-abortion. First of all, I am in favor of contraception, and of sex education, but I would also like to see abortion treated as a health issue and legalized. In addition, I believe that women have the right to decide about our bodies; abortion should be an option.
p 85 AZUCENA PONTEVEDRA / CANGAS DE MORRAZO, SPAIN, 2018
My struggle began when social conventions were revealed to me. My decision not to have children goes against the mandate of the Catholic religion. I think I was pretty clear about it at 28 or 30. It is true that at 35, or when I was approaching 40, I had a few doubts, but they were fleeting. They didn’t change my decision. I don’t regret it at all.
Wanting to bring a child into the world comes from how you understand the world existentially, how you understand life, how you see the world, what it means; the importance you give to biology, to genetics, to blood ties. I think if most people thought freely, maybe they would make this same decision. Our education—how we were raised, what is expected, what others expect of us—carries a lot of weight. Most people expect the women in their family to have children, and very few women confront or rebel against it.
p. 95 EMILIA CHIHUAHUA / OAXACA, MEXICO, 2014-2015
Rita Torler, a teacher I had in college, told us that she had decided not to be a mother when she was very young. I loved the idea that there was another way, that of not being a mother.
I matured very late; I was very naïve. I was about 27 years old; I saw the passion this teacher had for her work, and the relationship she had with her partner.
One day, when I was 34 years old, we were crossing the border from Juárez to El Paso, Texas. I was driving and, suddenly, my mom turns to me and says: “Well, what’s up? You’re not going to have children? Because your sons’ sons are not the same as your daughters’ sons.”
I said, “No, mom, you’re screwed, because I’m not going to have kids. I’m more and more sure that I don’t want to be a mother.” She has never asked me again; she has supported me and respected my decision.
p 102 CLAUDIA SANTIAGO DE CHILE / CÁHUIL / CHILOÉ, CHILE, 2017-2018
For me, I was always in doubt. I wanted to have a family, but I didn’t know whether that family included children. Because living is a bit of a rebellion, as in, “Why am I going to bring kids into this shitty world?” It’s rebellious denial, then you mature and your position changes. In the end, life shows you that there are other things that can fulfill you as a woman that do not directly involve motherhood. Deep down, you decide to not have a traditional family. For me, my family is my partner.
My nephew once asked me why I didn’t have children and I replied that there were different types of family and that, in this case, we didn’t want to have children. “You’re going to get more gifts,” I said.
My mom once told me that she had heard a story that we (Félix and I) didn’t have a child because we couldn’t. “That’s a lie!” I said. People make things up. They respond to, “Don’t they have children?” with “Ah! They can’t have them, that must be the answer.”
The truth is, I never asked my mom if maybe they ever thought, “Hey! When we’re old, let’s all go live together and take care of each other.” In any case, I think people who don’t have kids think about this more specifically. I do think about doing a project, maybe in another 20 years, to live in a place with all
of our houses and live our last years together and take care of each other. That’s part of life and friendship.
p 103 RENATA OAXACA, MEXICO / WARSAW, POLAND / BUDAPEST, HUNGARY, 2015-2021
I am independent and being alone is one aspect of independence. For me, not having children is freedom, it’s doing what I want. I am aware of what it means to have a child, of the responsibility, of the workload, of the risks. No one can have everything and a woman even less. You have to choose.
Motherhood is not a homogeneous construct, there are many mothers who are marginalized and silenced. The first text I wrote in Polish was about lesbian mothers.
There are many refugees from the war in Poland. I met Isaac, who died in 2006, who had come to Poland as a refugee with his family. His daughter is 18 years old and I help her pay for Spanish courses and teach her English. She is a brilliant girl. I don’t see her as a daughter, I just want to play the role of friend and guardian. I became a feminist not because it was fashionable, but because of my own history. I have strong political beliefs. It’s also feminist to support young women. I think the young women who are close to me [my students] may see me as a mother figure, but this is another kind of motherhood.
There are taboos about motherhood. It is never made clear that pregnancy can be a health problem, nor that the fetus sucks your calcium, and makes you weak. Nor is there any talk of the physical pain it causes, of postpartum depression. No, no one talks about these things.
p. 114 NORMA TLAXIACO, OAXACA, MEXICO, 2019
While having a Pap smear and labs, the gynecologist told me that I had cysts, that I would not be able to have children normally: “I am going to treat you, and if you get pregnant, after you give birth, we’ll remove the cysts once and for all.” According to her, the ideal treatment for my situation was in vitro fertilization. She told me that my uterus was fine—I hadn’t had abortions,
because I hadn’t been pregnant—it was, as it were, intact. The problem was blocked tubes. This news made me feel weird. I didn’t want to have a baby. But, well, I hesitated. They showed me the estimate of the cost, and explained that it could be three or four attempts, depending on my uterus and my age: at that time, I was 36. The point was that they were going to do everything they could to get me pregnant. They even told me that if my eggs didn’t work, they could sell me frozen eggs.
So I said no, I don’t want to. I didn’t consult or talk about it with my family. I didn’t even give my partner the option, I just said “no”. I didn’t see myself going to all those medical check-ups, and besides, imagine, I said to him, “Go into debt? Are we going to work just to pay off a debt?”
p. 119 JUDITH OAXACA, MEXICO, 2023
If you haven’t had a child by a certain age, people frown on you. But the pressure is less when you still have time on your biological clock, or when you believe that once you have lived through the fun and ‘chaos’, you will mature, and the ‘maternal instinct’ will kick in. People question and criticize women who have not had children more than those who have. The view that a woman should be a mother is so commonly held, it’s as if it were an obligation. But it is a possibility, not a ‘duty’; everyone should be able to choose the life they want. The decision is not categorical, it doesn’t happen at one specific moment. There is no ‘decisive moment’, because it comes about in stages and because of important life experiences.
I used to say only “No” when I was asked if I had children. This led to some people expressing compassion. Sometime later I gave it a twist that changed everything, I answered: “No, I decided not to have them.” With that, I saw that the ‘problem’ was not mine, but other peoples’. Because my answer is so confident and frank, no one says anything, often it’s met with silence. We must recognize the multiplicity of stories that help us break down the stereotypes and social mandates that dictate what a woman should be like.
p. 123
We know a lot more about the air we breathe. Judith Romero and other women
RÍAN LOZANO
Researcher, Institute of Aesthetic, UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico)
About seven years ago, two friends and colleagues —Iván and Deborah— told me about Judith Romero: a photographer who lived in Oaxaca and had been photographing women for years, specifically those who had decided not to have children. Judith was going to exhibit the first stage of her project at the Museum of Contemporary Art of Oaxaca (MACO) and wanted someone to curate it with her. When I met Judith in person, a few months later, I was at my desk at the Institute of Aesthetics of the UNAM. I remember that I was drained as I had recently come back to work after my maternity leave. Judith provided the impetus that I needed to get back into the swing of things. She invited me to be part of a project that, I soon understood, was much more than a photography exhibit. It was also the first chance I had to leave my own maternal prison: putting that exhibition together allowed me to travel and sleep for the first time, alone, since I had given birth. It was an interesting, and also emotional, journey in which eight women challenged us to think about the political and poetic implications of deciding not to have children and, above all, of their decision. This photography project, now a decade old, has been in exhibits all over the world, but it is also a conversation that has taken place over a long period of time and became a safe, shared space for speaking out. A space where the artist shows us the lives and voices of these other women: those who decide not to have children, those who question society’s expectations, those who, with Judith, own and enjoy their visibility.
Nearly half a century ago, the writer and poet Adrienne Rich wrote, “We know more
about the air we breathe, the seas we travel, than about the nature and meaning of motherhood.” 1 Since then, and thanks to the work and activism of feminists, motherhood has moved to the center of debates about, and struggles for, women’s rights, a demand that motherhood be recognized as a very public issue. In this project, in the same, perhaps complementary, way, Judith moves the choice not to have children out of the private realm and makes it an issue that is not only intersected by socioeconomic conditions, but also puts the desires, joys and freedom of many women front and center.
The photographs—portraits, in each woman’s personal space and surrounded by their personal objects—reveal their decisions, passions, memories, desires, and individual ways of understanding the world. Their written and filmed voices are their testimonies.
I don’t need motherhood to feel fulfilled, or happy. Yes, it annoyed me when they said “but you’re going to be left alone”. That’s the stupidest thing to say, motherhood is no guarantee of anything. “She was left to dress saints”, “Poor thing, she had no children”, “Poor thing, she didn’t get married”, “There was no one to do her the favor [of getting her pregnant].” Is there anything more insulting? What for my aunt was a [prison] sentence, for me was a choice, the decision not to have children. I don’t like that idea of sacrifice, or the stereotype of self-denial. In those days I belonged to a group of Communist Youth and Mao’s Little Red Book spoke of contraceptive methods. That book taught us a lot. Sometimes people have a hard time categorizing me so they put me in the box of “woman who couldn’t have children”, assuming that I had tried and been unsuccessful. “You don’t have children? Oh, you couldn’t, that’s it.” The decision not to have children is not a one-size-fits-all decision; although it may be, it is multi-faceted. It’s a construction of “no”, a fabulous form of
1 Adrienne Rich. 1976: Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution. Norton. 1995.
resistance. “You’re going to be left alone; get a puppy.” I don’t regret my decision at all. What’s it to you? That meddling was obscene— “I’m doing it for your own good.” In the end, life teaches you that there are ways to fulfill yourself as a woman other than motherhood. It was thought to be the ‘natural order’ of things, not a free decision. Feminism highlighted this. In the 1960s and 1970s, it was a mortal sin to choose not to have children. I know that my decision has a political component. A teacher told us that she had decided not to have children when she was very young, and I loved the idea that there was another way, that of not being a mother. I used to just say “no” when I was asked if I had children. Some time later I gave it a twist that changed everything, I answered: “No, I have decided not to have children.” Faced with the self-confidence and frankness of that answer, people are often struck dumb, they don’t say a thing. I left my village when I was 14 years old. I lived far from home so I could build a different future. I’m pro-abortion and pro-contraception. We must decide about our bodies and abortion must be an option. Machismo is strong here [in Mexico], women are for bed, kitchen and children. Pregnancy is unthinkable to me, I want to do other things that give me satisfaction. I was raped when I was 20. I was very young when I found out I was pregnant; I was 17. I didn’t want to tell anyone. So I decided to have an abortion, not knowing the risk involved. I knew I had to terminate the pregnancy. It wasn’t traumatic either. I am thrilled when I realize how strong the women I accompany in giving birth are. It takes a lot of work and enormous strength to give birth, but also deciding not to be a mother takes a lot of strength. I decided not to have children, for me it is an honor to teach a skill—working with clay—to young boys and girls who want to learn; they are seeds that you leave to germinate; who knows where, but they will reach far away lands. I think it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life. At some point I learned what plants to use. The only one I’ve used is Santa María, which has oxytocic powers [stimulates contractions].
There is a lot of diversity between mothers and non-mothers, the important thing is that motherhood or non-motherhood is a choice.2
In all of these testimonies, the different formats and connections reverberate: childhood, solitude, religion, social norms, care, the right to control one’s own body, family relationships, independence, or the rather rare sense of respect for the right not to be born. But in these life histories, there are also lives and experiences that are very distant from each other—sexual pleasure, alternative kinds of families, sexual violence, abortion, ableism—identities outside the mainstream.
Judith explores the complexity of a decision about which, it seems, we don’t know much at all. Why are these stories mostly private? What is the relationship between the visibility of this choice and the demand for control of our own bodies? What are the social and political implications of this?
In this process of de- or un-naturalizing stereotypes and pushing back against prejudice and recrimination, Judith Romero photographed 20 women from different socioeconomic, geographic and sexual backgrounds. Mariana, Lisa, Natacha, Claudia María, Ronda, Gisela, Renata, Emilia, Fabiana, Deyanira, Azucena, Claudia, Rufina, Zoila, Norma, Alejandra, Carolina, Guadalupe, Ángela are teachers, domestic workers, midwives, artists, secretaries, designers, doctors, anthropologists. The show (which exposes but is also transcendental; professional but also political) concludes with Judith, the photographer photographed. The author closes this journey with a self-portrait: a pause in this conversation that will surely continue.
Other Women
Footnotes
pp 8-9
FABIANA
I interviewed Fabiana at the beginning of the project. We had a very lovely conversation and when we finished she told me that she didn’t want her face to appear in the photo. So then I focused on the atmosphere and surroundings. Shortly after we got to know each other, she would go to Paris to do a doctorate in anthropology.
p. 11 View from Fabiana’s dining room window, on the seventh floor of a building in São Paulo.
pp. 13, 14
CAROLINA
I was struck by the attention to detail and the dedication that Carolina puts into creating her living space. Some of the works are by friends, keeping her company and filling the house with light.
p. 15 Carolina in her ritual of personal care.
p. 17 Flowers that she gathers from her family orchard.
pp. 18-19,20 MARIANA
Mariana lives on one of the Paraná delta islands. To get to her house one has to take a water taxi that crosses rivers and creeks. There she’s built the place where she imagines she will live in her old age.
p. 21 Mariana shares photos of India and other countries she has visited. Every chance she gets, she ‘escapes’. She loves the feeling of liberty that traveling gives her.
pp. 22-23
Mariana takes out a mattress and settles to read a newspaper or book in the shade. This is one of the subtle ways she spends her time on the island.
p. 25 GUADALUPE
2 Selections of testimonies from Judith Romero’s interviews with the 20 project participants. This selection, printed on vinyl, was exhibited in large format on one of the walls of the Sin hijxs, 20 respuestas exhibition at CENART, Mexico City, March 2023 [https://www.cenart.gob.mx/ calendario-de-eventos/exposicion-sin-hijxs-20respuestas/].
Buck is Lupita’s third guide dog. They spent a month together being trained in the Leader Dogs for the Blind school in Rochester, Michigan, in the United States, where the respective personalities of dog and person are paired so they can work together as a unit.
pp. 26-27
“Have you ever considered having a blind woman in your project?” I was shaken when she told me that she had travelled from Puebla to Oaxaca to
meet me personally because she identified with Other Women (Museum of Contemporary Art, Oaxaca, 2017). I had to find all the other women I interviewed, but in Guadalupe’s case it was she who got in touch with me.
pp 28-29 I watched her read. At one point she revealed: “I read to come into contact with the writing.” I know that she does the same to practise languages, to learn fables and to study other cultures.
p 31 Lupita places her furniture and objects carefully. She never moves them, to avoid tripping over them. Her belongings are few but well chosen. She places a beautiful, fragile flower vase on top of her Braille books.
pp. 32-33 RONDA
I met Ronda when she was researching the sustainability of the mescal industry.
Women were involved in every stage of the drink’s production but even so they had to fight to make sure that their work was recognized in an industry dominated by men.
p. 34 Ronda in the former convent of Santo Domingo de Guzmán, a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1987, in Oaxaca City. During her visits, Ronda stays in the city center to be able to move around comfortably. She appreciates its artistic and gastronomic expressions, as well as its historical and architectural sites.
p. 35 In an underground oven lined with rocks, agave hearts and fibres are cooked by maestra mezcalera Reyna Sánchez as part of the artisanal production of mescal.
p. 39 ÁNGELA
Ángela transforms the film cartridges she used when she was a photographer into works of art.
pp. 40-41 Some of the works that she has exhibited in galleries and museums are brought together on walls and in spaces of her home. Her works represent challenges and questions about her life and decisions.
pp. 42-43 NATACHA
Rían met Natacha through the Mujeres en espiral project and wanted to introduce us. Natacha was illegally imprisoned for 10 years in the Santa Martha Acatitla prison in Mexico City. I was going to
interview her there but fortunately she was released ahead of schedule. Our meeting was brilliant and I think that it was good for both of us.
As Natacha is French, she didn’t have any family nearby who she could live with. Our first talks were in the house of friends where she was staying, and also in Coyoacán park, one of the first places that she got to know after getting out of jail.
pp 44, 45 On subsequent trips to Mexico City, we continued to see each other. One day she told me that she had found an affordable room on the roof of a building. She felt that finally she could carry on with her projects, including the Boussole collective, in which she engages in artistic activity that reflects on the violence and discrimination experienced by women deprived of their freedom, their children and their families.
pp. 46-47 GISELA
“My friends are scared of this portrait I bought in a bazaar,” she says, pointing to one of the pieces in her collection. To temper the aversion felt by her friends, she painted pink bows and lace on the girl in the painting’s dress.
p. 48 Using an image by the artist Loretta Lux, she performs an intervention on a ring that she designed during her hippie period. The theme of childhood is present both in her art and in her research as a sociologist.
p. 49 “I don’t know who will be left with all this when I die, who could possibly care,” Gisela wonders. She spends time in bazaars and antique shops looking for something that will surprise her. Her collection includes children’s clothes, toys, books, utilitarian items, stamps and movable type. She carefully sorts through these fragments of history that have become part of her everyday life.
pp. 50-51 DEYANIRA
In the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, the traditional costumes or huipiles occupy a special place. Some families keep them in cedar boots, decorated with flowers. These traditional huipiles represent a great investment, which is why they require special care and are worn with pride during patron saint festivities. Deyanira arranges the costumes, which she plans to pass on to her nieces.
p 52 Deyanira collects empty perfume bottles that have been given to her as gifts and have a special meaning in her life. Perfumes fascinate her as much as flowers.
p 53 Deyanira has an altar in her bedroom where she arranges religious objects next to her mother’s portrait. For her, the emotional bond with her Zapotec family is very strong; she speaks their language and prepares Isthmian food. In this way she reaffirms her indigenous identity and her pride as an Ixhuateca.
pp 54-55 Deyanira chooses Aguachil—the beach of her childhood—to be portrayed in. Her father was a fisherman, and even today part of her family works in commercial shrimp fishing. She wears a regional costume from the Isthmus and in her hand she holds a resplandor, which is a kind of headdress worn by women during traditional festivities, when they go to church.
p. 57 ZOILA
These are the treasured objects of Zoila, better known as Doctora Coca. She is a medical surgeon who, since the beginning of her career, assisted obstetricians at the Mexican Institute of Social Security, before dedicating herself to traditional midwifery.
pp. 58-59 With the help of a Pinard stethoscope, Zoila listens to a human heartbeat in the seventh month of gestation. For 33 years she has been accompanying women during pregnancy and childbirth. In 2018, she founded Diosas de la Oxitocina, a space for the transmission of knowledge where she assists women who either wish to become or not to become mothers.
pp. 62-63 Zoila uses fire to cut the umbilical cord in a natural birth. She prefers heat to the cold of scissors. This procedure takes about 15 minutes and helps to avoid infection, because it cauterizes the area being cut.
pp. 64-65 When Zoila told me about Santa María, I immediately asked if we could go out on the streets to find it. It never ceases to amaze me that a wild-looking plant can be used to terminate a pregnancy or induce childbirth.
For her, any knowledge that has to do with the protection and care of women is important.
p 66
CLAUDIA MARÍA
“Before, I didn’t like my scar and I used to cover it up, but now I don’t care,” Claudia María confesses to me as I take this portrait of her. At the age of 18 she had an operation for a heart murmur. This radical experience made her think differently about her life and the life she wanted to have.
p 67
Claudia María works from Monday to Friday as a domestic worker. This gives her the opportunity to learn hairdressing or to enjoy the weekends with her partner and her pet, or to invite friends to a barbecue on her terrace.
p. 69
Claudia María lives in a working-class neighbourhood in Buenos Aires with Colón, her partner of 30 years. When they met, he already had a child. She says that this gave her peace of mind knowing that he would not insist on having one with her.
pp. 70-71 RUFINA
Rufina is an advocate for the role of women in both her personal history and in the pottery tradition. She took courses at the Centro de las Artes de San Agustín (CaSa) (Centre for the Arts) in Oaxaca, which opened up new paths in her artistic practice.
p. 73 Throughout her life, Rufina had several jobs, finally dedicating herself fully to pottery, a tradition rooted in her family and community. She keeps the flame alive by teaching new generations the secrets of working with clay.
p. 74 Firing plates, cups and glasses in an adobe kiln in her workshop in Atzompa.
p. 75 Once, playing with the clay, she made a female silhouette that she immediately broke. To her sister’s bewildered look, she said: “I am breaking Rufis [her nickname], now she will be different; the one you knew has changed.”
pp. 76-77 ALEJANDRA
I met Alejandra at the exhibition Otras mujeres, organized by the Galería Gronefot in Santiago de Chile. When I invited her to participate, she thought that her story might not be relevant to the project. The following year I sought her out again and, luckily, she accepted. Her story was revealing to me because of the
uniqueness of her testimony, which broadened the diversity of experiences around the decision.
p 78 Alejandra grows plants that she carefully selects to bring harmony to her apartment.
p 79 Family objects and photographs at the entrance of Alejandra’s home.
pp 80-81 LISA
“My artistic life began to develop after my father’s suicide,” Lisa tells me. “Of all my family, he was the one who had a link with art and with whom I could now share what I do. I think my dad wasn’t made to have children, and I feel very much like him.”
p. 82 Lisa poses with some of her acrylic printed installations.
p. 83 Lisa has depicted her family in several of her works. On the table in her home-studio she has placed one of her art projects, which shows the silhouettes of her mother and father embracing, and herself in the middle of her two cousins.
pp. 86-87 AZUCENA
Azucena often walks along the Areamilla beach, in the Vigo estuary. In the mornings, the light is wonderful and the Cíes Islands can be seen in the background. Contemplating the sea from the rocks is one of her passions.
pp. 88-89 Traps for crab fishing, in Pontevedra, Spain.
p. 90 Lichens and rock near the sea. This stony landscape makes me think of the different conversations and processes that are emerging in the solidity of each decision.
p. 91 Azucena, in Marín, Pontevedra, Spain.
p. 93 EMILIA
Emilia and I have been friends for 15 years. It was with her that I began to talk and reflect aloud about my decision not to have children. I never imagined where this journey would lead me.
p. 94 From conversation to conversation and after a long photo session on the rooftop of her studio home, this image emerged.
p. 96 Emilia had a very close bond with her mother. Her three brothers have children, but her mother never reproached her decision not to have them. On the altar she built, she placed a photo of herself as a young girl with her mother, sculptures that belonged to her grandmother and a wooden niche, a memento of a dear friend.
p 97
CLAUDIA
Together with her husband, Félix, they meet frequently and have an intense social and bohemian life. For their old age, they imagine a house shared with the members of their “dysfunctional family”, as she calls their supportive network of friends: a house where they can live independently, but with common areas.
pp 98-99 Claudia travels to Ancud, after giving a public talk in Puerto Montt about the decision not to have children.
pp 100-101 This is how our first talks began, traveling along the Chilean coast, in the company of Mónica and Jorge, friends who introduced me to Claudia and Félix...
p. 105 RENATA
Renata in the thermal baths in Gellért, during a break between the two exhibitions of Otras mujeres (Other Women) in Slovenia and Poland. We also gave two public talks together.
pp. 106-107 Renata and I shared a temazcal together in Calpulalpam, in the Sierra Norte of Oaxaca. The temazcal is a traditional Mesoamerican ceremonial and therapeutic steam bath. It represents the mother’s womb and the return to the origin.
pp. 108-109 A walk through the Botanical Garden, a living and hopeful space that Renata enjoys, and which contrasts with the horror of a Warsaw bombed by the Nazis.
pp. 110-111 NORMA
Norma walks Khali along the Boquerón dam. Her work leaves her little free time, but when she can, she goes out to enjoy the landscape and the water.
pp. 112-113 In Tlaxiaco I met Norma, who was born and lived for several years in Mexico City. In 2018, she decided to return to Oaxaca, the land of her parents, in search of better living and working conditions.
pp. 114, 115 In 2018, Norma returned to move in and give life to her family home, which had been abandoned for 50 years after they migrated to Mexico City.
pp. 117, 118 JUDITH
Self-portrait with the only photo I have of my mother, now deceased, when she was pregnant with me in 1975.
Dirección editorial | Chief editors: Julieta Escardó - Eugenia Rodeyro laluminosaeditorial.com - @laluminosaeditorial
Concepto y fotografía | Concept & photography: Judith Romero
Texto | Text: Rían Lozano
Texto de contratapa | Back cover text: Verónica Tell
Diseño gráfico | Graphic design: Gabriela López Introini
Edición fotográfica | Photo editing: Julieta Escardó
Producción gráfica | Graphic production: Eugenia Rodeyro
Laboratorio digital | Digital Lab: Bob Lightowler
Traducción | Text translation: Martha Rees, Joe Sieder, Charlotte Thompson
Corrección | Proofreading: Alicia Di Stasio, Mario Valledor
Testimonios | Testimonies: Alejandra Alonso, Ángela Arziniaga, Azucena Campa, Carolina Kunstman, Claudia María Chaile, Claudia Guerra, Deyanira Aquino, Emilia Sandoval, Fabiana de Andrade, Gisela Laboureau, Guadalupe Toledo, Lisa Giménez, Mariana Rovito, Natacha Lopvet, Norma Velasco, Renata Hryciuk, Ronda Brulotte, Rufina Ruiz, Zoila Ríos y / and Judith Romero.
Este libro fue realizado con el apoyo del Sistema de Apoyos a la Creación y Proyectos Culturales a través de la vertiente Fomento a Proyectos y Coinversiones Culturales, emisión 2022. This book was produced with the support of the System of Support for Creation and Cultural Projects, through its Promotion of Cultural Projects and Co-investments program, 2022.
Libro publicado en Buenos Aires, Argentina, en abril de 2024. Primera edición de 500 ejemplares numerados y firmados. Impreso en Akián Gráfica Editora. Published in Buenos Aires, Argentina, April 2024. First edition of 500 copies, numbered and signed. Printed by Akián Gráfica Editora.
Todos los derechos reservados. Cualquier reproducción de este libro no está permitida sin autorización previa por escrito de las editoras. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publishers.
Romero, Judith Otras mujeres / Judith Romero. - 1a ed - Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires: La Luminosa, 2024. 152 p. ; 25 x 19 cm.
ISBN 978-987-3751-53-0
1. Fotografía. 2. Fotografía Documental. 3. Fotografía Artística. I. Título. CDD 778.92
