I’d like my work to be a monument to the resiliency of the human spirit and a wish for wholeness. Within each piece is emptiness, chaos, paths chosen or passed by, despair and repair.
I rip and tear fabric that once belonged to someone else. I burn the cloth or use it to wipe the floor. I pick up band-aids that lie on the ground. Symbols of pain or symbols of healing? I am moved by the remnants of others’ lives.
I work these scraps together by hand, one stitch leading to the next.
Needle in needle out, the work is a meditation. I work with intention and devotion. I listen for and feel the rhythm of the piece. I strive to attend to the mark. Sometimes taking a stitch as if it were the first and the last.
I will forever be compelled by the “stitch” and the metaphor of it as a “mark” to catalog time, events and emotion. The line of the stitch fascinates me, knowing as I follow those marks my own story will unfold.
I am humbled by the infinite quantity of stitches that have been sewn by generations of women. Their work is the work that inspired me to practice. I know that those stitches carry within them secrets, prayers and dreams.