It is an uncomfortable truth I must acknowledge as a creative person, that I often have no idea what the meaning is behind my work. I say uncomfortable, because I feel like as the architect of my own pieces I should know what I’m saying (or at least trying to say) about what I present to the world. I can say with confidence that around 75% of what I paint, sculpt and write, I do so because the idea came to me at random and I thought, “huh, that sounds neat.” It’s only in retrospect that I can see the true message and understand what my subconscious was telling me as I worked. Which of course, like many writers do, I then weave into the narrative and essentially “retcon” (to coin a comic book phrase) all the metaphors and symbolism, the deliberate use of colour and composition, and pretend it was on purpose from the start. Because while I want my work to look cool, I want to look cool too. It is the epitome of “fake it ‘til you make it” and I doubt I am alone in this. But sometimes I realise I’ve also said things I didn’t mean to say, or could have expressed better had I paused and planned a little better. It can be a double-edged sword, but I’m not sure I would want it any other way.
All my art—and writing—has meaning. Even if that meaning is simply “it looks neat.” When I wrote SEEDS back in 2021, the stories were all based around the concept of growth; story seeds if you like. All of the sixteen stories in the collection centered female or gender-diverse characters, which was not intentional when I first began it, but fit the end result perfectly. The collection is a celebration of strong female characters through a horror and speculative fiction lens, and remains to date my most favourite work. It also sparked an awakening in me, which spread–like a seed–into my art.
Studying for a diploma in Art and Creativity this year has encouraged me to think much more about the deeper meanings and messages I’m sending out into the world. After all, my primary aim is for my art to be consumed and perceived. To be noticed and, hopefully, appreciated.
Medusa has always been a fascinating character to me since watching Ray Harryhausen’s stop motion version of her in Clash of the Titans, probably around the age of eight. I didn’t know who she was other than she looked incredibly cool and fierce. Although she is coded as a villain, I remember feeling furious at how Perseus treats her. Murdered and decapitated, with her head weaponised even after death, I could not bring myself to admire this supposed hero. Quite frankly, I thought Perseus was a dick even as a child.
As an adult, diving deeper into classical stories and mythology, that feeling has only intensified. So I suppose it was no surprise that I felt compelled to immortalise this strong, powerful woman in my art, along with other furious femmes. But this unrelenting urge to portray “fierce femmes and mighty goddesses” has given me pause for thought at times, for despite how some people see me, I am not one.
I do not identify as a woman, despite being assigned that gender at birth. For over forty years I moved through the world presenting as one, until I became aware of an alternative choice. This doesn’t not mean I suddenly became nonbinary overnight, simply that I now had the word to explain my feelings about gender, and recognise that I had never been a woman. I am married to an amazing man and have two wonderful children, and I am still nonbinary to my core.
My hysterectomy operation removed my uterus—an organ often referred to as “defining” womanhood—and although I did not undergo that procedure for gender reasons, it has definitely had a positive impact in how I feel about who I am. In short, I am not, and never have been, a woman. As a genderqueer, AFAB, nonbinary pansexual, you’d think my relationship with feminism would be complicated. And it is, but also it’s not. I am a feminist, and an intersectional one at that, because I also believe all oppression is connected and we cannot separate women’s issues from wider societal problems.
A very dear friend said that my art, “celebrates the usually ignored aspects of toughness and resilience that being raised female in a patriarchal society engenders. You face the dichotomy of being seen as weak but knowing you are strong, and present it through themes of mythology, folklore, and mortality.” I love that, and embrace it, not least because I feel a sense of pride in how someone can view my art and understand what I do perhaps even better than I do myself when I make it.
My most recent Medusa piece is a lowbrow pop art style piece of a shrieking goddess with rainbow “snakes”. The snakes are faceless and tongue-less, and perhaps bear more similarities to gummi worm candies than Medusa’s usual serpents. Hey, it was Pride month and I “just thought it would be neat.” Examining this work retrospectively I see two things:
- The image combines the ferocity of Medusa’s expression with a visual softening of her bodily weapons.
- The overly phallic representation of the snakes has been muted and transformed into something more palatable and interesting.
Why did I do this?
My writer-brain took over and I had a metaphorical sit down with my subconscious over a nice cuppa to try figure it out. What I realised:
- Her expression tells you everything you need to know about her feelings. She is angry, rightfully so, and vibrant rainbow colours (ie. how she is presenting herself) do not change how dangerous she is. You think those snakes are candy and can’t hurt you? Think again. You read her wrong and now you’ll pay for your mistake.
- I am simply not interested in perpetuating phallic imagery in a piece that is totally and completely about a powerful woman. She doesn’t need a dick (or dicks) to swing to be strong.
I also discovered that while she looks away from the viewer, her eyes “move” and follow them. As if she is letting all those who stare at her know, she might not be returning your gaze right now, but at any moment she may turn her head and petrify you. This was an accidental artistic choice but one I am delighted by. (Thanks, subconscious.)
There are other things I could say about this piece: how the solid black lines express movement and sound; how her green skin means she embodies all women of all races; how she is depicted as young and beautiful not ugly or “cursed” as the mythology tells us; and how the use of colour is a homage to the LGBTQIA+ community. These things were all intentional. But the real meaning behind the piece is power. Feminine power. A warning not to judge on appearances and respect the strength within.
My mixed-media sculpture/model piece, “Still, Life” also embodies this. As a direct response to my hysterectomy, it features a removed womb returned to and joined with the earth. It is an exploration of gender, transition, life cycles and death/rebirth. The uterus that created life, has completed its purpose, and yet in “death” it still nourishes new life.
I chose Monarch butterflies, caterpillars, and dandelions, specifically because they have various forms and cycles. The butterfly is often used as a transgender icon, signifying transition. Dandelions are some of the most resilient “weeds” highlighting persistence and tenacity.
It also signifies reclamation from trauma. The uterus is wounded, with a deep cut along the top. What was once inside the body is now outside, laid bare for all to see. But although it is now separated from the body, life continues to come forth, showing that trauma can be overcome, even though the scars it leaves may never fully disappear. Furthermore, a bright light shines from within the wound as a reminder that even when there is pain or discomfort, there is always hope. Encased in a frame—a still life—it is also a snapshot in time, a reminder that some experiences are etched in memory for better or worse, but time still moves onwards and time can also bring healing.
Again, I must admit, I did not know all of this before I made it. It began as a joke. “If you don’t have your own uterus, homemade is fine.” I had a loose idea of combining it with living elements and gifting it back to nature, but it was all instinctive and immersive. I figured it out as went, letting my subconscious brain guide me again. Somehow, that feminine energy and strength rose up again, to create a piece that is both delicate and powerful. I am no less of a woman without a uterus because I never was a woman. The work helped me process my experience—and please note that I say experience not trauma. Perhaps if I did identify as a woman I’d have more specific feelings about what losing it means and why I felt the need to honour it in art, but for me it was simply an organ I was born with, gave me two wonderful children, and unfortunately caused a lot of health problems for all my life. I’m not sad to see it go, but I do have emotions about it not tied to femininity, or womanhood. It signified a very definite end to a cycle of my life that was always going to come, but was instead offered to me earlier. And I needed to acknowledge and honour that, not just for me, but for those who do have conflicted feelings, or even grief, about their bodies, hormones, emotions and aging.
In past artist statements I described my art as, rawness meets perfection, mixing light and dark to find compromise and balance: a metaphor for healing and reclaiming identity. It is a statement that seems to say a lot but doesn’t really explain much. It’s a vague allusion, a journey towards a goal. It tells you what I aspire to, not what I actually do. Much of my art blends elements of the natural world with the supernatural, because I enjoy creating stories and art that straddle those lines and bridge them together. I use bright colours and bold lines to express movement, and abstracts to create mystery. For no other reason than I think it looks neat.
My past artist statement still holds true, but I also think it’s much simpler than that, and answers some of the questions I’ve asked myself about what drives me and nourishes me through creativity. In one sentence, I can now explain not only what I do, but why:
I make art that acknowledges the brutality of existing as a woman in a patriarchal society by expressing the power and strength of feminine energy.
Tee Wood, July 2026.