Many of us spend a third of our days bloating, contracting, aching, and oozing, quietly consumed, interrupted, or quarantined by the hormonal tidal wave commanding the primal swamp between our legs. In 2013, when I began making these photographs, I’d never seen a picture of anyone menstruating. Our bodies are history’s muse: endlessly neutered for exhibition, hollowed into a husk of breasts-hips-ass. But in art and culture, menstruation is a gap, sewn-up and silenced, between virgin and madonna. It is too ugly to picture.