Shattered
Contemporary Stories of
Surviving Sexual Violence





Introductory text
Edmund de Waal essay
Catalogue text
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It begins as a traveller's tale.

It's Spring 2002. I've just moved to London. Gazing out at the overgrown garden, burbling softly with migrating frogs, I pour the tea, and turn on the radio.

“Is Feminism Dead?” A stern voice interrupts the frogs. “Which way for Feminism, now that the job's done?”

Women, it was announced, had good jobs, enough money, and sexual freedom. Excellent I thought, reaching for my coat. Spring it may have been, but warmth it seems is not as forthcoming as sexual freedom and equal rights. Glancing next door, I recall the previous weekend when I had the unexpected pleasure of entertaining my neighbour's one-year-old baby girl for the afternoon. An hour or so later, at the request of the police, I had the less pleasurable task of photographing her mother's beaten distorted face to provide evidence for the CPS. Her boyfriend, the baby's dad had been to visit.

Three months travelling had told me, that far from dead, feminism was alive and kicking, and scattered across numerous places.

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