Lacking local resources, I turned to the trusty internet for answers. I quickly learned that entering ‘Maltese’ in any search engine would cause a plethora of images of scruffy white dogs to appear, which to this day raises my blood pressure just a little. Scrolling down, the results hardly elaborated on what I had already been taught; Malta has unique folktales, and St. Peter eradicated all the venomous animals. Nothing to tell me who I am or what Malta was like before.

My Practice

The inherent confusion of the Maltese diasporic identity drives my art practice. I began working in sculpture as a way of dealing with these complex emotions. 

My process goes like this:

1. I feel frustrated, empty, and angry at my lack of understanding of my own heritage and identity. 
2. I research, and find a new fact to add to my collection of dissatisfying answers. 
3. I interpret these feelings and this new information in sculpture, desperately adding to my body of handmade artefacts depicting a drowned and resurrected ancient religion: a visual representation of this internal (and eternal) quest. 
4. Repeat. 

It’s a ritual in itself. 

And it’s through this obsessive cycle that I have recently decided what being Maltese means to me. 

The Answer?

First and foremost, its holding complexity. The ability to navigate the world despite a tumultuous shared past. It's grieving together what was lost, and holding onto what is remembered by our elderly. It’s uncovering what has survived; the ways Malta has always been unique, despite efforts to replace her customs and traditions. There is no single Answer or Solution, just the process of finding out. 

And of course, pastizzi.