I am seventeen when I find myself at a job interview in a brothel.

As I ascend the dilapidated stairs in a mostly vacated building, I am however rather oblivious to the fact that it is indeed a brothel. I check the suite number before entering a sparsely furnished room.

The Storyteller draws us in, captivating us until the noise of the outside world is but a faint murmur. With every word, inflection and plot twist, we find our hairs standing on end, hearts expanded ... breath held.

I squint into the horizon as we wade out into the Indian Ocean. The sun bites into the turquoise and turns it silver like a magic trick. Mum’s hip is snug. My fingers dig into her skin and I eye the rise and fall of the oceans swell: it’s like the lungs of a sleeping torso.

There is a quote and it goes something like “being an artist means forever healing your own wounds whilst at the same time endlessly exposing them”. Loosely translated, Artists dance feverishly on the fringe of social norms in an attempt to self-process

When we think of a hermit archetypically, we usually imagine a cave dweller living alone, isolated from society and people. Words like “loner” and “recluse” can come to mind. In ancient stories, hermits were seen as guides - imparting wisdom & direction to travellers in need.

She is the source of all life. We all had one. From conception until birth, she was our home. Our relationship with our mother ranges from idolisation to contempt and everything in between. It is in her ability to be intimately known - yet enigmatic that makes her a living contradiction.

From the time I discovered the concept of ‘archetypes’ some years ago, I was fascinated. I immediately identified with so many of the archetypal folklore and mythology characters. In some way throughout my life, I had been The Trickster, The Prostitute, The Child, The Rebel, The Victim, The Saboteur, The Mother, The Artist, The Addict and The Explorer to name only a few.