Claiming and Curating Infertility: The Editors of a New Anthology Talk Trauma, Healing, and Creating
The painting on the glass plate is delicate and elegant. Around the border, intricate blue and white flowers call to mind chinoiserie. In the center, a naked woman curls in a fetal position, her olive-green hair unfurling like the leaves that surround her. In her center, an actual fetus: tiny and black and tethered to an umbilical cord, in a pool of red.
The Loss by Ashley MacLure reminds me of what got me through the physical and mental unspooling that followed my own miscarriage. Besides therapy and family and time and Zoloft, the fact that I could turn something that felt terrifying and shameful into something beautiful—the fact that I could still make things, if not a baby—helped me sew myself to this world. MacLure’s work is one of many pieces of visual art and writing featured in the new anthology Infertilities: A Curation, edited by Robin Silbergleid, Maria Novotny, and Elizabeth Horn, published by Wayne State University Press.
The first essay I wrote for MUTHA is part of the collection, too. After the most isolating experience of my life, it feels wonderful to be surrounded by artists and writers who—for all our differences, given the diversity of identity and experience represented—have this in common: We wanted a child. It didn’t come easy. We didn’t stay quiet about it.
The editors collectively answered my questions about intersectionality, bodily autonomy, and how a photo of a cactus throwing a middle finger can be about infertility.
CHERYL KLEIN: How did you decide there was a need for a book like this? What motivated you personally to work on it?
EDITORS: This book emerged fairly organically from our collaboration on The ART of Infertility project and our own experiences with infertility and art-making. The ART of Infertility began in 2014, as an art, oral history, and portraiture project devoted to infertility advocacy and education; as part of that, we have curated a number of exhibitions of visual art as well as hosted writing and art workshops at a range of spaces. What this work revealed is how art can be used to heal, to educate, to create community around infertility.
Before COVID, much of that work was in person and involved schlepping suitcases filled with art across the country, which is both expensive and ephemeral. Although we had the idea for a book before 2020, the pandemic pushed us to finish it; it makes the work portable and permanent (we originally imagined it being small and light enough to carry in a bag to have with you as a companion). Among the other unique features of the book, all three of us as editors and all individuals included identify as infertile. Our experiences with infertility–diagnoses, treatment, and approach to family building–vary widely but we are unified in our belief in the shared need for art to communicate, educate, and heal.
We should also note that although it wasn’t the direct impetus behind the book, the timing of the Dobbs decision to reverse Roe v. Wade has made this work more urgent and timely.
I see access to fertility treatment as kin to abortion access, in that they’re both about bodily autonomy and being able to make choices about motherhood. What themes or specific pieces in this collection do you think make that connection (explicitly or implicitly)?
Yes, we agree. Unfortunately, there remains a misconception that infertility and abortion are completely disconnected experiences. In actuality, they are fundamentally and practically connected experiences of reproductive health and choice. The US Supreme Court’s decision to reverse Roe v. Wade has had a direct impact on persons living with infertility as well as recurrent reproductive loss. Several state legislators (such as Oregon, Florida, New Hampshire—to name a few) have proposed what are called “personhood laws” which claim that human life begins as soon as a sperm fertilizes an egg. Such a law would make common fertility treatments like IVF illegal. Additionally, for those who experience recurrent reproductive loss, the reversal of Roe v. Wade poses additional concerns over the health and safety of women who may become pregnant, lose that pregnancy, and require medical attention, such as a D&C which is medically an abortion procedure. For states with strict laws banning abortion services, patients who experienced a loss may not be able to access the health care they need, and risk further loss of fertility or even death, as we have seen in the news.
In the book, there are several pieces that invite the reader to consider the close connections and overlaps of bodily autonomy. For instance, Carla Sameth, who is a contributor to our collection as well as to MUTHA, has written about her experiences both with having an abortion and with experiencing infertility/recurrent pregnancy loss in “Mother’s Day.” And then there is Yomaira Figueroa-Vasquez’s “Grief to the Bone,” which thematically reflects upon the history of sterilization in her family’s home territory of Puerto Rico. Visually, “The Wound” by Ashley MacLure represents the lack of trust and care she felt in the ability to make her own choices against the backdrop of medical professionals.
Additionally, there are a range of LGBTQ+ perspectives that challenge normative ideals of motherhood and offer the reader/viewer a more nuanced understanding of the path to parenthood, as well as stressing how access to fertility services like donor embryo/s, donor sperm, etc. are essential means to pursuing a family. Jennifer Berney’s essay “She’s Not My Mother” is explicit in discussing both blatant and subtle forms of homophobia that created barriers to medical care and family-building services. These themes, we believe, are important to highlight in connection to the reproductive rights movement because centering LGBTQ+ reproductive health/fertility needs contributes to how the infertility advocacy community constructs its “access to care” advocacy appeals, making it a more inclusive and reproductive justice-centered effort.
When I made the decision to do IVF after several unsuccessful IUIs, I had a stereotype in my head of rich heterosexual white ladies of a certain age who wanted to make designer babies. Looking around the waiting room of my doctor’s office dispelled that myth quickly, and I appreciate how this anthology gives voice to nontraditional families and people of color.
Interestingly, the only time I’ve ever seen fertility represented as an axis of privilege and marginalization was in a transracial adoption workshop. I think fertility privilege is still largely invisible to those who have it. Where do you see intersections of identities, or double (or triple) marginalization? What do you think might be gained by claiming infertility as an identity?
Yes—we love the term that you use here “fertility privilege,” which dovetails with but is not coterminous with heteronormativity. There are so many privileges here, often taken for granted by those who don’t require fertility services to conceive. To be able to conceive in the comfort of one’s own home, privately. To be able to conceive with one’s own partner, if one has a partner, without a third party or a medical provider involved. To be able to conceive for free. To be able to conceive easily, without trauma and loss. Our book focuses on individuals who identify as infertile, across a range of demographics and diagnoses. As you note, we very deliberately included LGBTQ families and persons of color to combat the stereotype that infertility is a problem faced by older white women who put off childbearing.
And across demographics, the route to family building and “success” also varies widely. Some did infertility “treatment,” others adopted, some remain child-free. And there is something quite powerful in claiming that membership in a group, allyship across a range of other identities, including sexualities, genders, races, and ethnicities. If understanding infertility as a disease allows for access to medical care, perhaps understanding infertility as an identity shifts “who counts” as infertile and ultimately widens the scope of who needs fertility care and the life-long impacts of infertility.
That is, infertility is not simply a condition that can be treated with expensive procedures but a complex experience that can affect all aspects of life. The narrative that infertility only impacts heterosexual couples remains largely the dominant narrative. And yet, access to fertility services, are relied upon by many more demographics—including LGBTQ+ persons who may need access to donor sperm, donor egg, or a surrogate and then there are also single persons who may choose to start a family of their own and rely on fertility treatment as an option to build a family. And we should underscore that LGBTQ+ persons and/or single persons seeking to parent may actually rely on fertility services more than heterosexual persons because of the unfortunate reality that some adoption, foster care, and third-party reproduction organizations discriminate based on sexual orientation and continue to privilege two-parent heteronuclear families. So your point that identity markers add layers of complication to access family-building services is correct and one that the book tries to highlight through the various perspectives it offers.
After I miscarried, I remember standing in front of one of Frida Kahlo’s paintings about her miscarriages, and sobbing with recognition and gratitude. Some of the pieces in this book, like Foz Foster’s Pain Will Not Have the Last Word, are overtly about pregnancy loss (and/or infertility). Others, like Annie Kuo’s Cactus Middle Fingers, on My Way down the Mountain, are not, but the emotions they convey and evoke are spot-on. Can you talk a little bit about the visual art in the book?
While some artists who contributed to the book were trained professionally, many were not. Our artists, like all contributors to the book, self-identify as infertile. The book features a wide array of media including fiber, glass, watercolor, bookmaking, photography, and more. Many of the pieces incorporate everyday objects, some that are specific to experiencing infertility, such as medicine and syringes. This represents the magnitude of the physical impact and repetitiveness of treating infertility and is sometimes used to reorient the artist to those objects. Some art portrays the isolation felt while dealing with infertility, while others highlight the community found in connecting with others who have also received an infertility diagnosis.
In the book, as in our in-person exhibits, we wanted to include narratives to accompany each piece. So much of experiencing a piece of artwork can be the viewer’s interpretation. In this case, we also wanted to give the viewer more insight into the choices that artists made to work with the materials they did and a window into the circumstances they were dealing with at the time.
Additionally, we wanted to give those reading the book an opportunity to express themselves through art. To use it as a tool to make sense of their own diagnosis and facilitate healing. Often, infertility is a reminder of the very fact that our bodies cannot create the very thing we want: a child. We believe, and have personally found, that art and writing can be accessible tools facilitating healing because they can remind us that while we may not be able to create a baby, our bodies are still capable of producing new ideas, new images, new meanings. For those interested in creating art around infertility, we include several art and writing prompts to help them get started. The prompts don’t require any fancy supplies. They only require items readers most likely already have in their homes. We are hopeful that these prompts will be used by individuals as well as in support groups and clinics.
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