Distort,
resist,
erase.
resist,
erase.
I was taught how to sew, just not in this lifetime. My hands hold the memory of my ancestors, my mind holds the memories of my trauma. I think about it all as I connect the segments; sewing in a way I know is unskilled and unrefined. Desperate to piece things together.
Distortion occurs when I stretch fabric over a frame and the original form changes. When I layer these fabric pieces, the shapes transform. Not every fiber naturally accepts the dye; it varies. This is a form of resistance. There are things I can physically add to encourage this resistance like soy wax or water guard. Erasure happens when I use such a transparent fabric; depending on one’s viewing stance, shapes and threads can visually disappear.
Distort,
resist,
erase.
resist,
erase.
I think about how charged these words when associated with memory and ponder their impact on my own. Sometimes I become confused as I stitch. Am I piecing together threads or my brain fibers? Making sense of my body? Regaining autonomy? I create with these words in a way to reclaim them; I use them with newfound agency to embrace them in a way that makes sense with my being.
The stitches need to be visible. Meet the labor of the women in my DNA. I think about their feminine pain as I try to heal mine, finding such beauty and possibility in a material often seen as mundane as it’s tied to domestic labor. The uses are endless, just as it is in my mode of making.
Strain, filter, extract, catch, release, hold onto something.
My work is an attempt to manifest new value in something that is broken, physically and intangibly. Plaster pieces are held together with alternating layers of sheer fabric. They merge fragility with strength. They crumble but remain intact. Thinking about the fickleness of memory, I stretch the fabric so it teeters on its capacity. When it nears the point of falling apart, I ensure the pieces remain connected.
Distort,
resist,
erase.
resist,
erase.
Healing is not synonymous with joy, and the spaces in my paintings grapple with this. Yearning for various color zones, I search for different worlds that exist within a single viewpoint. Color behaves as a barrier and protection. Saturated hues do not reflect joy, they search for it. There is an odd tension as your eye moves through the spaces in a non-linear manner— bouncing back and forth, mirroring the stages of healing, hurting, and healing again.
These things are cyclical; an entity I will eagerly try to decipher in the future of my art-making.