[Read] MOTHER at NGV

BACK•24 Jul 2026

On 27 June 2026, four extraordinary Australian writers presented intimate new works on mothers and motherhood.

In partnership with National Gallery of Victoria and inspired by their evocative MOTHER exhibition, this distinguished line-up of writers presented new writing that responded to artworks and themes on display.

You can now explore these writings below, to see how each writer explored rich textures of motherhood and competing conceptions of what being a mother can or should look like.

Rachel Ang

Edwina Preston

Lulu Houdini

Introduction by Maxine Beneba Clarke

As a first generation Australian, and as a descendent of many mothers who were not permitted to mother their children, and whose children remained the saleable property of someone else, I think often about the women of this place – of the First Mothers, of yesterday, and today. I think of their strength, their endurance, their grace, the ferocity of their mother-love and of course, their needless suffering.

Those who have been denied it, truly understand both the privilege and the pain of motherhood.

Thank you, to the First Mothers, and First Mother figures, who have cared for, and kept, this place and its people since time immemorial.

This exhibition brings together more than 200 works from the NGV Collection, traversing geographies, cultures and mediums. Few relationships are as defining than those we share with our mothers. Artists and writers have long sought to reflect, articulate and capture the complex experience of motherhood, exploring our collective desires and anxieties, and depicting experiences both universal and culturally specific.

To finish, I’ll leave you with a poem from my latest collection Beautiful Changelings which mirrors the theme of his exhibition. The poem, The Matriarchs, honours mothers and the mother figures of all genders, who raise us up, keep us safe, and keep the world turning.

for the matriarchs
beautiful changelings, Maxine Beneba Clarke

thank you,

joyous marching aunties
butch, in mardi gras silver suits:
flipping us off, calling us out,
holding us fucking accountable

nans with empty cupboards,
but a talent for anchor stitch,
turning a seam for any folk
who find their sewing room

that public school teacher,
with an extra lunchbox, and a lucky dip of dreams
who keeps the door open during breaks,
and always eats alone

that social worker who understands
rules are there to protect and bend,
that sometimes the thing for a fighting child
is to sleep in their own bed

midwives, who’ll coax mums to their feet,
whispering gravity’s gracious—
who’ll buy time to stall the doctor
from a needless operation

ceo, who cracked the ceiling,
stashing the sledgehammer by her side:
pulling through those who come up after,
standing sentinel-alert

thank you, glamourous giving trans queens
who gather young lost souls
the world has tarred as aberration—
humming, welcome, you are home

and designers who make garments
for a genuine big gal’s stride
(cut to hips, wings, folds and fupas,
and not just an upscaled five)

thanks, banner makers, and risk-takers,
protestors and the kweens,
bakers and the homemakers,
bosses, bitches, and the dreamers,

the sisters, and the mamas
and the aunties-of-them-all,

the makers and the movers,
sex workers, gynos, and the nuns

my mother, my sister, my daughter
and yours, and hers, and theirs

thankyou,

matriarchs-in-the-making,
and matriarchs,

on your thrones.

_{Image: EYE HEAR U MAGIK (2020) by Hannah Brontë.
Photos by Gregory Lorenzutti. Images courtesy of the National Gallery of Victoria.}

Presented in partnership with National Gallery of Victoria

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