The Art of Motherhood: Beyond the Madonna and the Mat
There’s something profoundly intimate about walking through an exhibition that dares to ask, Who is a mother? The National Gallery of Victoria’s (NGV) latest show, Mother, isn’t just a collection of artworks—it’s a conversation. A messy, beautiful, and often contradictory one. Personally, I think this is where the exhibition shines brightest: in its refusal to tidy up the complexities of motherhood.
What makes this particularly fascinating is the way the NGV pairs the sacred with the mundane, the historical with the contemporary. At the entrance, you’re greeted by a 15th-century Madonna and Child, a symbol of maternal purity that has shaped centuries of Western imagination. But right next to it hangs a conical birth mat by Elizabeth Birritjama Ngalandjarri, a First Nations artist from East Arnhem Land. This juxtaposition isn’t just clever curation—it’s a challenge. It forces us to question: What happens when the idealized mother meets the lived reality of birthing, caring, and surviving?
From my perspective, this tension is the heart of the show. Co-curator Sophie Gerhard, a mother herself, notes that the Virgin Mary’s image has long influenced how women’s bodies and birthing practices are perceived. But what many people don’t realize is how deeply colonial and religious narratives have shaped motherhood globally. The exhibition doesn’t shy away from this. It asks us to consider how Christianity’s arrival in Australia, for instance, might have altered Indigenous birthing traditions. This isn’t just art history—it’s cultural critique.
One thing that immediately stands out is the exhibition’s focus on First Nations perspectives, a refreshing departure from many international shows on motherhood. Co-curator Katharina Prugger, who was pregnant during the show’s creation, highlights the absence of Indigenous stories in similar overseas exhibitions. This local framing feels intentional, almost defiant. Works like Kyra Mancktelow’s One Continuous String—a replica of a cotton dress her grandmother wore on a mission—aren’t just artifacts; they’re acts of reclamation. Mancktelow’s piece, woven using her grandmother’s technique, is a testament to the resilience of Indigenous mothering practices. It’s a detail that I find especially interesting because it reminds us that motherhood is always embedded in larger systems of power and resistance.
The show also grapples with the question of who gets to be a mother. From Davida Allen’s witty lithograph Baby to John Lorimer’s 17th-century painting of a colonial maid of color, the exhibition showcases the diversity of maternal experiences. But here’s where I have to pause: does it go far enough? While the show touches on themes like loss, care, and play, it feels oddly silent on modern parenting realities like IVF. If you take a step back and think about it, this omission feels like a missed opportunity. Motherhood today is shaped by technology, economics, and shifting social norms—yet these elements are largely absent.
What this really suggests is that even the most ambitious exhibitions are constrained by their collections. Mother relies heavily on the NGV’s existing holdings, which limits its ability to explore contemporary issues. Personally, I can’t help but wonder how different the show might have been with a larger budget for new acquisitions. Kate Just’s An Armour of Hope, a knitted chain mail for her adopted son, is one of the few new pieces, and it’s stunning in its vulnerability. Just’s work captures the fear and hope that come with becoming a mother, regardless of how that happens. But it’s an outlier, not a trend.
A detail that I find especially interesting is the prominence of fiber arts and textiles throughout the exhibition. From Mancktelow’s weaving to Just’s knitting, these works highlight the intersection of craft and caregiving. It’s no coincidence that traditionally ‘feminine’ mediums dominate the show—they’ve long been the tools of mothers, grandmothers, and caregivers. But this raises a deeper question: why do we still undervalue these forms of art? The exhibition doesn’t explicitly answer this, but it invites us to reconsider what we deem ‘worthy’ of museum walls.
What many people don’t realize is how political motherhood is. The show doesn’t just celebrate mothers; it interrogates the roles we assign them. Destiny Deacon’s Home Video subverts the stereotype of the ‘bad Black mother,’ while Hannah Brontë’s Eye Hear U Magik honors intergenerational spiritual knowledge. These works aren’t just personal—they’re radical. They challenge us to see motherhood not as a fixed identity but as a dynamic, often contested space.
As someone who’s spent years writing about art and culture, I’ve seen my fair share of exhibitions. But Mother feels different. It’s not just about the art; it’s about the conversations it sparks. Gerhard notes that visitors often share personal stories while walking through the show. Prugger adds that it makes people want to connect, to reflect on their own families. This, to me, is the mark of a successful exhibition: it doesn’t just inform—it resonates.
But here’s my final thought: as much as Mother celebrates the universality of motherhood, it also reveals its limitations. No single show could ever capture the full spectrum of maternal experiences. And yet, that’s precisely what makes it worth seeing. It’s a starting point, not an endpoint. It reminds us that motherhood is both deeply personal and profoundly political, both timeless and ever-changing.
If you take a step back and think about it, that’s the beauty of art: it doesn’t give us answers, but it gives us questions. And in the case of Mother, those questions are long overdue.
Mother is at the NGV until July 12. Go see it—not just for the art, but for the conversations it will leave you with.
