My work has become the place where I weave what I cannot say aloud. In the sorting of raw fiber, the spinning of the wheel, the pass of the shuttle, each stage holds a small confession: a private thought, a grief, a joy, worked into the cloth long after the feeling has passed. A single thread is fragile on its own, easily broken, but woven together, it becomes structure, strong enough to hold weight and last. I think of my own vulnerability the same way: something soft and unguarded, made durable by the act of shaping it into form.
What looks like pattern to the viewer is, to me, a piece of my inner life, woven into something tangible. The truth behind a piece doesn't need to be named for someone to feel it. I trust they will feel that something is there, that the cloth in front of them carries the presence of the person who made it. Each piece begins as something entirely mine, but once it leaves my hands, it belongs to whoever stands with it.
The loom is a collaborator holding memory older than mine. I'm here to create work that carries warmth and meaning.
Thank you for being here.
