Every piece I make usually has a spot of blood on it — a record of the poking, prodding and pinning that happens while stitching. I used to clean each mistaken drop, but now I leave the evidence. It hurt when it happened. It reminded me that I am alive and not just subsumed by the warp and weft of the cloth before me. It's a symbol of existence — a forensic artifact that ties me to the art.
Catalysts has a forest of bamboo below the images, each horizontal stitch was an opportunity to poke through my finger.
Sinking into details is part of my process. Each stitch added not only embellishes but also brings focus to what I am feeling. Stitching also renders me mute, so when I poke that needle into my skin the little yelp that escapes my brain reminds me that I am present.
What would this eye be without the spec of gold in the pupil?
What would these lines mean without the distressed cloth beneath?
What would this tangle of threads mean without the swirl of activity within?
