Up, Down and In-Between

Hello friends-
Happy July! I am sharing some wonderful news.

The Museum Of Motherhood is moving to The Factory in the warehouse district this August in St. Petersburg, Florida. From that new location we plan on executing quarterly exhibits. The first, which runs August 28-Oct., is titled ‘Motherhood On Motion’ curated by Liliana Beltran in collaboration with me, Martha Joy Rose.

Additionally we anticipate sharing aspects of our herstorical exhibitions permanently throughout the year, along with a compelling ‘Futurisms’ exhibit, interactive opportunities,  and we will have a vibrant store onsite.

We are looking to work with partners who wish to create events within the space and are as excited by this new location as we are. Internships and residencies at the MOM Art Annex are ongoing.

On a personal note, as the museum founder and as a kidney transplant survivor, I have recently and unexpectedly come up against a physical impediment, which has been most inconvenient. I have been hospitalized with a bronchial infection- no doubt exacerbated by the Canadian fires and am currently in recovery which is why communication has been slow. It has been a long time since I have been brought this low by a physical limitation, and while I feel confident about moving forward, I anticipate another few weeks of recovery. 

Lilliana, Beltran, curator, and I have been able to collaborate in terms of written curatorial statements and organizing art exhibitions, work that was begun over a month ago. I was able to ask a local artist to put signage up at the new location so second Saturday visitors this month would see our new spot (Thank you Paul Leroy), which is all good.

Because of this most recent development in my health, I am reaffirming the need once again for activate our Living Board. The Living Board is not a governing board but rather intended to keep MoM’s initiatives active and ongoing in the community even in the event of my unavailability. It is crushingly clear to me over the past several weeks the manner in which the blog has not gotten written, the newsletter has not gone out, the physical space which needs attending to has not been attended to, that every endeavor requires a team beyond the team, which means backup. The community-needs of MoM require local hands-on coordination. My ability to navigate on the phone amidst coughing fits has been impossible. To that end, I will re-initiate this community aspect when I return in August.

As we rapidly move towards our ‘soft opening’ date of August 28th, which is also the 60th Anniversary of the Civil Rights March on Washington – MoM will work with The Factory Team to fashion a press release and make plans for the ‘official’ opening of Sept. 9th, Second Saturday Art Walk.

Artwork will begin going up during the first two weeks of August. For those of you who wish to help, volunteering time, posting social media, and circulating news of our new space – we appreciate all the help we can get. We aim to create a generous, supportive, and creative space. AEHK are invited to share their work- we can produce gift cards for the store for example- with any themes relating to embodiment, motherhood in motion, or procreative or feminist endeavors. People who are looking to get involved can write with their ideas, proposals, or just sign up for potential volunteer hours, etc., using this online form: https://mommuseum.org/volunteer-mom/

In the spirit of progress and purpose, we now also put ourselves in in the capable hands of our strategic advisors who have been diligently working towards crafting a compelling narrative for potential funders and donors and to Connie B for her work on Salesforce & Quickbooks bringing us ever closer to fiscal well being, accountability, and preparation for MoM’s next great leap forward. We enthusiastically thank everyone who has been part of MoM over the course of the past year or so.

We are grateful to Maggie Duffy & Leonora Anton of the Tampa Bay Times, our St Pete High School volunteers & local teachers, Jeff Herman and Creative Grape, Gloria, Munoz, and Tombolo Books, SpaceCraft, Marcile Powers, Maureen McDole of Keep St Pete Lit, Yes Chef Village, our mothers groups, Batya Weinbaum for her onsite mural work, social media manager Margot Pomeroy, Empowerment Coordinator Sierra Clark, Hannah Brockbank, Larry & Cathy Dillahunty Law, Paul LeRoy, Dwayne Shepard, Nick Ribera, Jim Woodfield, Liam and Kristen Lansing, Olga Bof and Localtopia, Historic Kenwood, Neighborhood Association, and Artist Enclave of Historic Kenwood, all those who donated towards the purchase of the Mother Tree, and everyone who toured MoM or took an interest in our initiatives as well as our new partners at The Factory!

Can’t wait to be with you again soon,

The Mother Tree Acquisition, Goddess Summary & Closing the Bones

MoM has acquired the Mother Tree for our permanent collection! Thanks to each of you who donated through our GoFundMe, our website, or by private contribution. Thanks too, artist Helen Hiebert, artist and creator for trusting us and for additional support. Thanks to all of you we have succeeded in achieving this wonderful milestone.

This purchase represents the culmination of two years of fundraising for our permanent collection and we couldn’t be more pleased to share this success with each of you. If you have been fortunate to have seen the Mother Tree at the MoM Art Annex or one of her other previous exhibitions spaces, lit up and beaming, then you join an exclusive group who have indeed been fortunate. Moving forward we look forward to future large scale exhibition spaces where we can share her for public display.

May has been an incredible month for forging new connections, completing projects, and travel. For those of you who have been keeping up with travel blog reports from founding director, Martha Joy Rose, travels to the Goddess temples of Malta have been transformational indeed. You can read more about the Goddess’s of Malta at our founder’s blog.

Throughout June, July, and August, operations will continue at the MoM Art Annex though outreach activities are paused. Our team will be busy strategizing a year’s worth of exhibits for our 2023-24 season which commences in September. During the summer, internships, grant writing, renovations, and curatorial activities will be in full swing.

Finally, we want to share news from our recent experience at the Modern Herbal Apothecary in Tampa for a ‘Closing the Bones Ceremony’. Lyani Powers, doula and owner of MHA presented at this year’s annual academic MoM Conference on ‘Maternal Landscapes’. This ritualistic ceremony can be traced to South America, Africa, and Asia, yet here in American this ritual is not common. Founder Joy Rose was graciously invited to Lyani’s studio post-conference.

During the conference, Lyani shared that she performed ‘Closing the Bones’ on her mother-in-law so it seemed the ceremony could work on new mothers as well as older mothers. Here at MoM we recognize the ways in which many women continue symbolically, and in real life, remain attached to grief, trauma, and even may stay stuck emotionally or become over-involved in their adult children’s lives. Could this be a way to honor those sacred bonds while allowing space for closure and release? We were hoping so.

Nestled into a residential neighborhood Lyani’s gorgeous space is stocked with teas, herbs, and scents that are both delicious and healing. The ceremony itself involved sage, touch, a holding of the body and swaying gently while being gently cradled. This was followed by a tight body- wrapping, a rest, and it concluded with a ceremonial tea and washing of the feet. There were low mutterings, incantations, and prayers for releasing old patterns and welcoming new energy and new ways of being.

This was all a marvelous closure to our founder’s extended trip to visit the Goddess Temples of Malta. The divine feminine has been with us and the world for at least five-thousand years BC. How do those threads get lost? How do the rituals that sustain us disappear? We must weave our way back in time together to activate the symbolic strength of women as respected and glorious members of society.

The Museum of Motherhood’s first online exhibition was in 2010. The launch featured a Sacred Feminine exhibit created Polly Wood online. Now, thirteen years later in 2023, Batya Weinbaum began work on the Goddess mural at the MOM Art Annex for her ‘Artist in Residency’ project. There is a lot of herstory in this world to be mapped – indeed, there is a link to all our shared legacies and experiences. We encourage you to do some research on ‘Closing of the Bones’ rituals. There is much to learn and much to celebrate if we can stay strong in our bonds to each other and continue to find ways to collaborate. Find our more at ModernHerbalApothocary.com or search ceremonies online. And, please, whatever you do, make sure to stay strong. You are beautiful!

The Closing of the Bones Ceremony brought a SONG to mind and is summed up well here:

I can’t really explain it
I haven’t got the words
It’s a feeling that you can’t control
I suppose its like forgetting
Losing who you are
And at the same time
Something makes you whole
Its like that there’s a music
Playing in your ear
And I’m listening, and I’m listening
And then I disappear (Lyrics from the song Electric- Billy Elliot, the musical )

MoM Goes Abroad – Message From the Founder

LONDON ENGLAND – I attended the Procreate Project’s Oxytocin Conference, organized by Dyana Gravina, and team, mid-May for two days of intensely powerful commissioned art, scholarship, and workshop work at Kings College. Scholar, poet, and accelerator Hannah Brockbank and I were scheduled to lead a workshop together.

Inspired by the work of Sierra Clark, the workshop was titled “Repair Work, from Sweet Nothings to Sweet Everything,” the title of her chapter in Repairing the Black Family Anthology, edited by Sister Nayyirah Muhammad. The aim of the workshop was to disrupt narratives in order to facilitate healing, which was indeed the goal of the entire conference.

The power of stories shared and the work we did together to dialogue about contemporary issues facing mothers and the women who labor through this important work could not be denied. Laura Godfrey Issacs shared information about the Birth Cafe (see more at http://www.birth are.org), PhD candidate Anna Horn’s interactive workshop on ‘Inclusive Infant Feeding’ compelled.

The conference itself was funded by the Public Arts Council of England amount others. The Procreate Project, Museum of Motherhood, and MER: The Mom Egg Review have been working together since 2015 to feature the art and literature of m/others. I am looking forward to bringing new knowledge(s) back to Florida when I return. But first, the second portion of my trip takes me on a three hour flight to the island of Malta in the Mediterranean Sea.

Scenes from Oxytocin, London England

XEMXIJA, MALTA with its windswept bay, Mellieha with views that stretch past the isle of Goza, Mostar, with its magnificent dome, Mdina the silent city, and Rabat. Hot, dusty, and international. Roses, cactus, olive trees and lemons. In Malta, we go to see the Goddess temples Hagar Qim and Mnajdra. These two temples comprise one of the three UNESCO Heritage sites on Malta, but together there are seven megalithic temples. So, of the three sites heritage sites, one represents all of the temples combined, plus the city of Valletta, and the Hypogeum. Additionally, located at the island of Gozo are the temples rumored to built by the giants.

These Megalithic temples comprise some of the oldest free-standing structures on earth. Older than the pyramids, they are thought to be Goddess Temples for both fertility and transformation as part of a prehistoric culture that appears to be centered around women and the three spheres, heaven, earth, and the underworld as embodied through the pot, house, temple and tomb. We catch the bus and hold tight swerving up narrow inclines twisting and turning above the sea.

When we get to the temple, I am quivering with excitement. We buy tickets, walk through the small but impactful museum, and head outdoors along a windswept path towards the structure which overlooks the Mediterranean. The breeze is slight. Hagar Qim is crowned with a giant white canvas to lessen the impact of the elements. As one approaches her entrance, the tent fades away and all focus turns to the massive rocks shaping what appears to be her portal beyond the giant curved walls. According to Cultural Anthropologist Veronica Veen, we enter the Goddess’ body through her vagina (Pg. 8 The Goddess of Malta).

Goddesses of Malta

There is so much to write about here. Both portions of my trip have offered so much in terms of knowledge, blessings, friendship, and collaboration. I’ll bring all this newfound knowledge of Goddesses and the art of many m/others back to the Museum of Motherhood with me. It will certainly inform my work moving forward and I look forward to the future conversations, creativity, and future collaborations this will inspire.

Yours in Love, Light, and M/otherhood. I hope my American friends have a great Memorial Day Weekend – Martha Joy Rose

More about my personal perspectives can be found at my blog: MarthaJoyRose.com

Happy Mothers’ Day, Contest Winners, Residencies & More

Become a ‘Member’ at MoM; memberships start at $30 annually. Membership provides invitations to private events online and in-person at MoM, access to exclusive content, and if you join between May and July, we’ll mail you some MoM silicone friendship bracelets and stickers. [LINK]

ST. PETERSBURG — Inside a historic bungalow on 28th Street North, a dream is being nurtured.

It’s an incubator for a museum dedicated to motherhood and also the home of its founder: artist, activist and mother Martha Joy Rose.

Hailing from New York, Rose said she was born in Ithaca, worked in Manhattan and raised kids in Westchester. She previously taught mother studies and sociology of family at Manhattan College. Read Full Story

My name is Estelle Phillips and I wrote “Motherhoodlum”. I did a workshop at the MoM conference and was bowled over by the participation of fellow MoMers. Thank you for your inspirational response; there was beauty in your layered truth and I hope to create something perpetual which honours you.

I am thrilled to be in residence with MoM. This presents a wonderful opportunity to develop a play I have sketched, about equality for women. I am passionate about equality, especially within the family context, the complexity of which was highlighted by your workshop responses.

I am hoping to capture your beauty, and the complexity of m/otherhood in my play. Please would be so kind as to answer the following three questions?

1.              What is your greatest joy of m/otherhood?

2.              What is your toughest m/otherhood challenge?

3.              What would you do to support you in your m/otherhood, if you were your partner? [Meaning, if your roles were reversed, so your partner did the m/othering that you now do. You are the same people; only what you do is different.]

Please feel free to answer by way of email reply, photo, voice note and/or video. Answer brilliantly or badly, whatever comes out, I will be delighted! Here is a BIG THANK YOU. All responses will be kept anonymous. I am on Instagram as @estelle_writer44 and twitter as @legalimportant



Poetry WinnerGiovanna Capone is a poet, fiction writer, playwright, editor, & filmmaker from an Italian neighborhood near the Bronx. She now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Bedazzled Ink published her first book, In My Neighborhood: Poetry & Prose. Her play, Her Kiss, was performed for sold-out audiences in San Francisco by Luna Sea Women’s Performance Project. She has co-edited two anthologies: Hey Paesan! Writing by Lesbians & Gay Men of Italian Descent, and Dispatches from Lesbian America: 42 Short Stories & Memoir by Lesbian Writers. Giovanna is a public librarian. Her new documentary film is called: Finding the Italians: A Granddaughter’s Journey. Download Poem.  www.giovannacapone.weebly.com

How I Became a Reader [Click title to read poem]

By Giovanna Capone

Antoinette, my mother

and mother of five

housewife and part time world leader

ruling your Fulton Avenue crew

that diapered, mutinous lot

surrounding you on every front

Home alone with no car and  no money

and no relief in sight,

till our father came home at night

exhausted and needing his dinner

Antoinette, how did you do it?

“She’s bothering me!”

“He took my stuff!”

“I’m thirsty.”

Two decades of raising kids

with rarely a vacation in sight.

A bowl of plastic fruit

sat on our dining room table for years

At different times yellow bananas, red apples,

and golden pears would fly through the air

Or the occasional pink slipper

would became airborne.

“Madonna! Give me one hour of peace. One hour!”

You’d shout at the ceiling, beseeching the Great Mother above.

Two filterless cigarettes burned

in two different ashtrays

One in the kitchen, and one in the living room

The smell of nicotine burned my nostrils.

One night you announced you weren’t cooking dinner

“That’s it! Chief cook and bottle washer is off duty,”

you declared from the living room chair

We stood in the kitchen

watching Daddy spread mayonnaise on sandwich bread

We had three choices:

roast beef on pumpernickel,

ham and provolone, or peanut butter and jelly.

“Mommy’s on strike,” he said, explaining the situation.

Antoinette you now have three girls and two boys,

grown and raised.

Five adults with jobs, careers, degrees, and homes,

the occasional husband,

and a few bank-worthy FICO scores.

When I think of you today

I remember your solid body planted in the living room chair

I remember you disappearing into a really good book.

And the solace it gave you to read

and the words you shared with us later

explaining the world beyond our lives

a world of presidents and wars

and politicians full of lies.

I remember the tower of books you stacked by your side

a fortress protecting you from us,

and our frequent trips to the library

everyone piled into the car

and Daddy driving us downtown.

You dealt out library cards from a black leather purse

like a blackjack at a card table,

quick and sure

teaching us all the game.

Short Story Winner Laura Bissell, The Ancient Parchment: Legacies of my Mother. Laura (she/her) is a writer, performance-researcher, educator and poet and her creative writing has been published in New Writing Scotland, Tip Tap Flat and From Glasgow to Saturn. Her first non-fiction book Bubbles: Reflections on Becoming Mother (Luath) was published in December 2021 and she is co-author/editor of Performance in a Pandemic (Routledge, 2021) and Making Routes: Journeys in Performance (Triarchy, 2021). She lives in Glasgow with her partner, daughter & twocats. Download Story. Laura’s website

The Ancient Parchment; Legacies of My Mother [Click title to read poem]

By Laura Bissell

This story is about being a mother but also being mothered, being a daughter, and the ways in which new motherhood has brought my understanding of this into sharper focus. The legacy of my experience of being mothered impacts how I mother, a lineage passed down. My mother is a matter-of-fact Scottish woman who has been the single biggest female influence on my life. At the age of 30 she had just found out she was pregnant with me when her own mother died suddenly of a heart attack aged 56. My mother hadn’t told her yet that she was pregnant so my grandmother never knew about me, the life that was to come. My mother (now in her early 70s) has solemnly told me many times over the years that she walked around with a towel round her neck for a week after her mother died to catch her tears. As a child I felt the loss of my mother’s mother keenly, even though I had never known her. When I found out I was becoming a mother myself, I wanted to tell my mother immediately, should the same sudden loss inexplicably happen.

During pregnancy, I began to wear the pendant my mother had given to her own mother. It was round and silver, the size of a two pence piece with a ridge around the edge and the symbol of two fish intertwined in the middle. Pisces. We were all Pisces: my mother, her mother who I had never known, and me. On the back, word welts: With Love. Curving, looping, flowing letters scratched into the solid metal. I had treasured this pendant since I was young as a talisman of the women that had preceded me. Although my interest in astrology waned as I grew older, my affinity with water increased, and I would hold the silver pendant in my hands until the cold metal grew warm. I liked to feel the rough engraving under the pads of my fingertips. I had never seen my grandmother’s handwriting and I knew that this curving hand was not it, but the hand of whoever had engraved it over 40 years ago. Nevertheless, I felt that this was her hand, that I could recognise the trace of my own mother’s curving, left-handed loops in the shape of the cursive letters. My daughter breaks the chain of women in the family born under the sign of water but I will pass the necklace on to her nonetheless. I also pass on to her my surname as we gave her my family name (which I kept on getting married) rather than her father’s, traces of both the matriarchal and patriarchal lines being woven into her story.

When I became a mother, I often felt an oscillation between my roles and relationships. My daughter sees me as mother, but to my mother I am daughter. This feeling of being simultaneously adult and child occurs frequently when we are all together, all generations in the same room. I missed this so much when the lockdowns began. I look at pictures of my mum when she is my age. We look the same.

One of the traditions in my family has been my parents, sister and I (and more recently my daughter) making the Christmas cake every year. In late October or early November we would congregate in a kitchen, usually my mother’s, to put together the alchemy of ingredients that would result in our family Christmas cake. This would be a vast volume of mixed fruit, some rustically chopped glace cherries and walnuts, chopped almonds, dark brown sugar, flour, large globs of ginger (left in big chunks, my mum loves to get a big burst of taste of each of the ingredients) and a heady mixture of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg and dried ginger too (for good measure). Thick black spoons of treacle would bind together the concoction (only ever used at Christmas, after which my sister and I would alternately take the rest of the red and gold tin home to languish in the cupboard till the next year when a new tin would be bought regardless) and then each of us would heave the wooden spoon around the hefty batter and give it a lucky stir where we would make a wish as we bound the ingredients together. Why so many months before Christmas? So that the near-black cake that would emerge after three or four hours in the oven could sit, wrapped in two layers of greaseproof paper and two layers of tinfoil, in a darkened cupboard being brought out every fortnight to get doused in whisky. In these weeks of steeping in the dark, the plentiful fruit would grow rich and boozy, ready for its appearance at the table for Christmas dinner. It would emerge a few days before and day by day be armored with: first a layer of apricot jam mixed with boiling water to form a seal for any wayward crumbs; then a thick layer of marzipan (my cousin’s favourite); then finally, on Christmas Eve, after an excruciating arm-juddering session of beating egg-whites, glycerin and icing sugar (with a dash of lemon) using my mother’s hand mixer (which is around 30 years old and looks it) the final layer of royal icing, manipulated into peaks with a flourish to resemble little mounds of snow.

The recipe for the Christmas cake is a (now brown and stained) ripped-out page of a 1982 Women’s Own magazine. Referred to as ‘the ancient parchment’, for the last 15 years or so it has been kept in a plastic poly pocket to keep it from falling apart. My sister and I have taken photographs of it, should it completely disintegrate and (horror of horrors), the recipe be lost from our family. One year, my mother thought she had lost it and Christmas was very nearly ruined seven weeks before it happened. Luckily, it appeared squashed beneath the pages of the Hamlyn All Colour Cookbook, another of my mother’s classics, and the ritual of baking the Christmas cake was able to go ahead as planned. The recipe for the royal icing was from Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management – a Victorian tome which lived on the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard. My sister and I used to mimic my mother by saying ‘Mrs Beeton says!’ while my mum would heave the book down to consult on some recipe or another when trying to prepare for a dinner party. The ritual of making the Christmas cake, from the buying of ingredients (always the same but still worthy of discussion every year), the day of combining ingredients and lining baking tins, in a kitchen full of the smell of spices and the warm house as it baked for hours on end, allowing the essence of Christmas to permeate the entire house, its regular dousing, then the days of various layering until it was ready to be adorned with the traditional decorations. These were: a Fimo angel my sister made when she was younger (the running joke in the family being that the end of a pencil my sister had used to indent her mouth has made the angel eternally look like a blow-up doll), a lopsided Santa made by me and, if we are with my aunt’s family (as we usually were), some ancient decorations from my uncle’s mother, devoid of all paint but apparently once a Santa and snowman. These various oddities on top of the beautifully peaked snow of the rock-hard royal icing perhaps made for a strange looking final offering, but everyone round the table always said it looked beautiful.

In the first year of my daughter’s life, only five weeks old, she was there in the kitchen, a little starfish in her Pavlik harness, held over the cake to do her (supported) good luck stir before falling asleep on her papa’s fleece for the remainder of the proceedings. The next year, at one year old, she was more animated, enjoying the stir, bopping about in my kitchen with my parents and my sister. My mum shrieked that she was going to get the mixture everywhere and we all laughed. I have it on video. I am holding her, she wears a red festive dress and I have on my Christmas jumper for the occasion. We are happy and laughing, we are together. You can’t tell from the video, but the kitchen smells enticing and we all retire to the living room for a glass of wine while the oven does its magic in turning the brown gloop speckled with a million raisins and orange bits into the magical cake we all love.

In the run up to Christmas 2020, we talk in somber tones about what will happen to the Christmas cake this year. My parents buy the ingredients alone and my mum says she will make it herself in her kitchen. I ask her to FaceTime us and think that maybe we will bake along, together but remote, continuing the ritual at a distance. On the Saturday she makes it herself, sending a blurry picture of my dad’s lucky stir. We are not together, we can’t be, and the ritual of decades is broken. The cake is baked. I don’t smell it and no-one apart from my parents had their lucky stirs. I am bereft. As Christmas together seems less and less likely, my mum sticks the cake in the freezer for a time when we can be together again. Once we contract COVID-19 in mid-December, the cake is joined by the turkey and the pigs in blankets, waiting patiently until the pandemic is over and we can defrost Christmas. We did it last year due to mum’s surgery and had Christmas 2019 in February 2020. Christmas 2020 finally happens in July 2021.

The ancient parchment sleeps in its poly pocket, tucked inside a recipe book to keep it flat. The traditions of our childhood will be passed on to our daughters, my sister and I now mothers to our own girls. Even if the paper finally disintegrates, the ritual will continue, the lineage of cooking together in a warm kitchen, the intoxicating smells of cinnamon and cloves filling the room and our hearts will persist, a legacy of my mother. (an earlier version of this story appears in Bubbles: Reflections on Becoming Mother, Luath, 2021).

Honorable Mention Poem by Kyleann Burtt: “Mother May I?” [Click title to read poem]

Mother may I

Mother may I find a way to understand who you are

Mother may I find a way to fill your every need

Mother may I not be hurt by your unresolved history

Mother may I see the gift that you are between the lines

Mother may I someday see you as a person not as a mother

Mother may I find a way to heal your heart by healing mine

Mother may I…..


May 13 Middlesex University, May 20 Science Gallery London 

Oxytocin is an interdisciplinary live event about mothers and carers that uniquely combines a bold programme of performances and live art along with discussion panels and workshops. 

It creates a platform for critical art practices, intersectional feminist theories and midwifery as well as showcasing the work of artists whose practices and personal experiences are often under-represented.

For its third edition starting Sat 13 of May at the Middlesex University, Oxytocin aims to create an arts, health & community-driven programme to evaluate the effectiveness of LGBTQIA+, Black and Brown and disabled patients’ care, and the cultural sensitivity of primary care providers, administrators and staff in maternity/health services.

Panellists Middlesex University 13 May: Amali Lokugamage, Anna Horn (chair), Krishna Istha,Lola Ornato, Meghan Luton, Natalie Whyte, Sahera Khan, Dr Hannah Barham-Brown (chair), Tracey Norton, Dr Amy Kavanah;

Performance artists across the 2 saturdays: Rubiane Maia, Laima Leyton, Mee Jay, Rebecca Weeks, Vanio Papadelli, Pia Jaime, SLQS, Poppy Jacksons, Portia Yuran Li, Guadalupe Aldrete, Dagmara Bilon