I was straddling a stool in the sixth-form art studio.

Alone.

It was cold.

But the sheet of wet plaster of paris scrunched between my fingers was colder.

Shivering half naked I’m thinking…

“No one is going to like this and I’m probably going to get into trouble”

Pulling out another plaster-soaked sheet and slapping it onto my bare thigh, I watch as the milky white liquid splatters and drips onto the floor.

I sit there staring at it.

It melted against my skin and began to perfectly contour my leg.

Diving my hand into the thick goopy soup and fishing out another sheet, I did it again.

Maybe it was an act of rebellion.

To see how far I could push the boundaries.

“Would they really let me make this?”

Less than 12 months earlier, we had left the bubble of my home country, Zambia. 🇿🇲

And it had been a culture shock for sure.

Now, I was struggling as a 17 year old in the UK.

The school, my parents, society…

Were all telling me what to do.

The expectations were clear.

👉 Do as you’re told.

👉 Get good grades.

👉 And don’t rock the boat too much please.

And I was struggling to fit in with my peers.

My Zambian sisters danced, sang, and wore vibrant clothes, expressing their femininity in ways I missed.

The art studio became my refuge, a place for self-expression 🎨

What I wanted to do for this project, certainly wasn’t conventional.

It was messier, bigger and more controversial than anything else being created by my classmates.

But sometimes you just have to have the courage to follow your heart and express yourself.

So I made it 👇

A life-size plaster cast of my body, emerging from red sheets.

It showed the desire for my feminine self to be free.