Why this artist tattooed her past lovers’ mothers’ names on her ribcage

For most people, the list of the people they’ve slept with isn’t something physical – maybe a half-finished Notes app list or scattered between DMs and dating app chat logs. But for performance artist Harriet Richardson, this list is something permanent – as the mothers’ names of every man she’s slept with sits tattooed along her torso.

The work, titled Temporary, is Richardson’s first truly permanent piece. While her previous projects, like 100 Dates and 100 Letters, explored ephemeral moments, this tattoo brings those ideas into the physical. Running 30cm along her right ribcage, beneath her breast, the tattoo reflects on the fleeting nature of sex and romance, especially in youth.

Instead of the men’s names, Richardson inscribed those of their mothers – deliberately taking the name most men hold apart from desire and placing it on the body of someone who represents its opposite. “It unsettles the binary they create between the ‘permanent’ woman in their life and the disposable one(s),” she explains. But the piece isn’t about any form of revenge, it’s about memory, responsibility and consequence.

The work is painstakingly precise: most names were recalled or easily found, but two fleeting encounters required a private investigator. “I didn’t tell any of the men in advance; some will discover it if they search for me, others may never know. That tension feels key,” says Richardson. The work resists the erasure that breakups usually bring and reinstates the importance of those bonds, even when they’ve faded. It also asks future encounters to consider whether sex is ever worth the permanence it leaves behind.

The list is complete – for now – as Richardson is 74 days into a year of celibacy, but Temporary is something she plans to continue. Each future encounter will incur a morning-after visit to the nearest tattoo studio and as a result: a new name added to the archive. Below, we talk to the artist about reactions to Temporary, her own relationship to permanence, and what it means to turn intimacy into endurance.

Which name was the hardest to track down, and how did it feel once you found it?

Harriet Richardson: There were two I couldn’t remember, both from fleeting encounters. For those, I hired a private investigator in London. I’ve always wanted an excuse to work with one, and it felt cinematic to have someone trace down these small but crucial details of my past. I was watching Twin Peaks at the time, so every time I received an update email the soundtrack played in my head.

The relief when the names came back was disproportionate to the excitement of having a private investigator, but accuracy really matters to me, so I was happy. It just so happened they’re now two of my favourite names: Maureen and Hazel. Both their sons were on Tinder during the pandemic.

What did it feel like to see the names written on your body for the first time?

Harriet Richardson: It was bizarre. Not only is it my first tattoo, but these words that had lived only in my memory, scattered across my life, were suddenly fixed in ink on me. It felt like a sealing. Very strange but grounding too.

Part of wanting them to be permanent comes from my tendency to choose avoidant men as partners. Breakups with them have always been about erasure. About deleting, forgetting, never mentioning again. In fact, this is one of the reasons I feel I can write so freely about it all, because the likelihood of an avoidant man reading something I’ve done post-connection is so tiny. 

This work resists the pattern of erasure. It insists on remembering, and on placing temporary encounters next to the supposedly ‘important’ ones without distinction. That doesn’t mean some random man with a moustache holds the same depth or meaning as my ex-partner of four years. It just means that act was no less important to my evolution. Having someone else inside you is a huge thing (notionally!). I wish everyone would stop being so cool about it all.

What was the reaction of the tattoo artist when you explained the piece?

Harriet Richardson: Dave, the Liverpool-based tattooist, was curious, and maybe even a little baffled at first. But once I explained the concept behind the design, he treated it almost reverently. I chose to get it done in the north of England, where my family is from, which gave the whole act a sense of grounding and personal weight. That context seemed to land with him: he understood straight away that this wasn’t decoration, but a work.

He was precise too. I asked him to make it look worn, even a little aged – as if it had already existed for years. In an ideal world, I would’ve started this piece sixteen years ago. He avoided using 100 per cent black ink, softening it just enough to feel lived-in. At one point he asked, very thoughtfully, if I wanted to be doing anything during the tattoo –  as part of the performance. I’d considered calling each of the exes as their mothers’ names were inscribed, but my therapist would never forgive me for undoing seven years of progress. Instead, I played 10CC’s ‘I’m Not in Love’ on repeat.

How have people reacted so far when you’ve described the piece?

Harriet Richardson: With either excitement or intrigue, mostly. Some laugh, some squirm. A few seem annoyed. I think it triggers people to reflect on their own histories, their own erased or forgotten encounters. That’s what I want most in the work I do: to invite self-exploration by way of evoking emotion. How awful it would be to make art that makes people feel nothing at all.

There does seem to be somewhat of a gender divide in the reactions, too. The annoyed (even outright angry) reactions have all come from men so far. I mentioned the piece on a podcast and quickly found myself on the Andrew Tate-adjacent side of the comment section. Which makes sense. The work does exactly what I described earlier: notionally placing me alongside the most important woman in a man’s life. Of course they feel something.

How do you see Temporary in relation to artists like Abramović or Schneemann, who also put their bodies at the center of endurance works?

Harriet Richardson: They’re both huge influences for me. Abramović’s endurance, Schneemann’s use of the body as an archive – those echoes are definitely present. With Abramović in particular, I identify with her dedication and commitment to the arts. Not to say this is anywhere close to sitting in a gallery for three months straight or having strangers torture you, but more in that it’s the only thing I care about. I put my money, my time, my energy, and my life’s purpose into doing these things. I don’t own a house, or have a partner or children, and have no prospect of those things anytime soon. I get comfort from knowing purpose without those things, which is something I find inspiring in her.

I also take cues from someone like Andy Kaufman, where humour cuts through intensity. Someone who, whether he meant to or not, made art accessible by intertwining it with every day. Temporary is endurance, but it’s also diaristic, familiar, and slightly absurd.

You’ve said this is your first piece you’ll carry longer than any relationship – how does that commitment sit with you now?

Harriet Richardson: I had a sneaking suspicion that I might regret it almost immediately, but it still feels right half a year later. All relationships come and go, even the long ones. It’s comforting to have something that will stay, no matter what. I suppose that really speaks to my recent learning (as a result of the aforementioned therapy) that I’m with me for life. This piece serves as a beautiful reminder. I do feel a bit weird about not having my own mothers name permanently inscribed on my body, but in light of the concept behind Temporary, I think it would be even weirder getting it now.

On the topic of commitment, I’m excited to see how it shifts people’s idea of sleeping with me. I intend for potential connections to know what they’re getting themselves into beforehand, and I’m interested to see if that changes anything about the quality or depth in the way people relate to me. I think if someone’s not okay with the weight it adds, it’s a really good metric for me to listen to.