In “I Want You to Not Want Me,” the artist undertakes the repetitive act of cutting onions—layer upon layer, slice after slice—until the mundane becomes profound. The onion, a staple in every kitchen and the base of nearly all cuisines, is elevated here as a symbol of invisible labor, emotional vulnerability, and domestic endurance. As the artist cuts the onions into what feels like millions of pieces, the performance transforms a common household task into a visceral exploration of grief, exhaustion, and female resilience.

The act is intimate and painful. Tears emerge not only from the onion’s sting but from the weight of every unspoken expectation, every silent cry embedded in daily domestic rituals. This is not a performance of spectacle, but of deep familiarity—where the kitchen is no longer a space of nourishment but one of emotional unraveling. With each cut, the artist peels away layers of identity, exposing the raw nerves of being a woman—torn between duty and desire, presence and invisibility.

The title “I Want You to Not Want Me” underscores the emotional fatigue of being needed only for care, never for one’s full self. It is a quiet rebellion against the constant demands of nurturing, a plea to be seen beyond function.

This performance offers no resolution. Instead, it invites the viewer into a world where grief simmers just below the surface, where onions are not just food—but memory, sacrifice, and the endless peeling back of self in service of others.