Looking Past “The Object”

I see it all as the same thing:


The pieces of work I sent in for the museum interim discussion to Filament 14 in Oxford were the pieces that at the time held the emotional quality and strength of my work as I see it… The object as a holder of person… Or memory of person. These small items of clothing had been through trauma and needed me to comfort. My role is one of comforter and provider and carer. I brought these items/people into being, so I must look after them.

But I’m not currently working on the garments, I’m working on the chairs… There is the question that hangs in the air:

“If you are working on the chairs why didn’t you send in the photos of the chairs?”

Because they are the same thing really… In my head… The chairs… The garments… The songs… Even the performance…

They hold the place, mark the moment, acknowledge the being that created the memory… I take note of the people who helped form me. I point at the importance of people who influence my thoughts and deeds. Whether I choose to do so in the form of working on an old garment, a chair, or write and perform a song is only relevant in the moment of conception. The act is the same. I sent the garments because at that time they were the prickliest, and I wanted to note and acknowledge that.

I’m trying to distill the essence of a process I don’t understand…
How does one person affect another?
What is the method of transference?
Why do we hold on to some thoughts so much longer than others, even when we know them to be damaging?
Why can some fleeting experiences hold sway, when others do not?

I don’t understand how these things happen, only that they do. So on the surface my work is at the very least an acknowledgement of the occurrence of an emotional transfer… Of love, affection appreciation, admiration, worship(?), kindness, obsession, values, ethics, morals….. Or hatred, disdain, disgust, worship(?), cruelty, obsession, values, ethics, morals… And all other…

To communicate connection in place of words lies the importance of the stitch. One stitch holds two things together. Up. And. Down. That’s it. It is both infinitely complex and beautifully simple. It might have a knot. It might not. It might do something fancy between the up and the down, but that’s not necessary.

It is intellectually and emotionally symbolic and physically practical.
Herein lies the beauty.

The stitch holds… For a while at least.

But what it holds is smoke and mirrors… It’s a something, a somehow, a someone, a somewhere… My work is the exploration of what this is and how it is and why it is. It is huge… And it is tiny.


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