I was five months pregnant when the Russian full scale invasion on Ukraine had started, my initial year of bringing a new life was intertwined with the chaos of war. This experience led me to consider how, in the midst of death and despair, there can still be room for life and hope.

Within the scope of human experience, the interplay between milk and blood outlines an important narrative—innocence juxtaposed against sacrifice, the embrace of life against the finality of death. Through the wide range of human cultures, the ritualistic use of these substances has been observed and honored: blood was spilled to appease the gods of war or to commemorate victory, and milk poured as an offering for protection, fertility, and peace.

Heraclitus mused that war is the father, the progenitor of all, asserting its role as the catalyst of change and evolution. Yet, in the shadow of such relentless transformation, it raises the question—could war also be the sorrowful mother, birthing cycles of growth and decay, as civilizations rise and fall in a rhythm as ancient as time itself?

This series consists of photographs made using my own blood and breastmilk.