Time becomes tactile, ticked up in a stitch; this rhythm is a reverie where my mind can find rest through work. My textiles are an earnest attempt to slow time, to hold fast in a world that seems built to commodify and consume. This meticulous labor is necessary retreat, a coping mechanism in a world that simply cannot be kept up with.

Yarn is a rolled-up line, that becomes a stitched, soft sculptural drawing that looks like a painting.

These classifications: painting, drawing, sculpture are of little consequence to the women depicted here. They are dead set, determined, and direct. Their bodies are a dialect--a (tattooed) Mother tongue that notes knowledge as symbols on their skin.  

These two are tangled together twins, born of the same world, but echoing out into alternate versions. Competent, charmed, powerful, and self-sufficient, they are staging a utopia where they are so integrated that the disappear and reappear into it. In this visual play, we are witness to creation. They are “Eve’s” in a different garden—one absent of men and their religion and rules and punishment. Their bodies are a celebration.