I often remember my mom sewing up holes in our clothes and wonder if she bled whenever the needle pierced her fingers. Maybe mothers subdue their pain by sewing ripped holes. Maybe her pain ends with the final knot she ties. My work started with these unspoken reflections, the realizations stored within memory, the impressions they leave behind, the fragment of details they echo, and the clouds of illusion they create. My work mimics these faded memories, the silences and blair, the last gasps and so on. Like my mother, I added and subtracted my memories into a pattern of thread. The act of adding and subtracting more wraps to a wrap and more wefts to a weft in a fabric voices my unvoiced realizations.
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