“Stalletti”, makes reference to the countless depictions of ‘our lady of sorrows’ lining Malta’s walls – an image of St Mary’s heartache after her son’s crucifixion. Traditionally the Madonna would be depicted with an exposed heart, surrounded or pierced by 7 daggers. This collection focuses on the heavy presence of absence. You may note that despite being named “Stalletti [daggers]”, you’ll find a distinct lack of blades in the image – instead, a singular index finger pressing on the artist’s heart is deemed equal and sufficient.

At a point when my world was upside down, it seemed only fitting that where we traditionally see a mother’s face of anguish, we see mine, that of a son processing the sudden loss of his mother. Either way, it’s the manifestation of a grieving mary.

The theme of identity is prevalent in my work, ranging from personal to national. To my observation, having an identity crisis is a Maltese rite. Our culture is a collage of our surrounding geography and a long history of colonisers. While this makes it a wonderful and rare specimen, the culture has internalised oppressive norms – heteronormativity, misogyny and an innate comfort with mediocrity to name a few. When you lose someone who’s the equivalent of the Northstar to your identity, there’s no way to remain the same person – a challenge exacerbated by being dragged back into toxic doctrine.

In my experience, the traditions surrounding death in Malta are not there to comfort those who need it. They all seem to be archaic parades of pain, and nothing more. Picture it, after being told you’ll never hug your mother again, you have to pick up her corpse, expected to look at her lifeless body, then a fleet of black gas-guzzlers take the funeral ‘party’ to a neoclassical temple built for a god who reportedly hates you despite having supposedly made you in their perfect image. There you bawl your eyes out in front of everyone you’ve ever met and more until the ceremony is over. After which you have to greet & humour people, consoling them for your own loss. The day isn’t wrapped up until the convoy takes you to a baron, decaying cemetery, where another priest makes the moment about his church while a couple of human plumbers’ cracks practically drop your mother’s coffin onto the rest of the family’s remains – making a sound impossible unhear.

There is little dignity in death and our fading culture does little to serve the vulnerable.