With this work, I set a challenge for myself: to crochet my childhood home from memory. Yarn accumulates to bring form to a space that no longer exists, while I rely on distant recollections of a sensuous life within the boundaries of familial space. Amalgamations of activity, remnants and glimpses of life—tangled chair legs, unclimbable trees and spicy cinnamon potpourri—seep into the walls as they form the structure of self. Now, the house on Church Street exists only as psychological echoes rendered in fiber.
Singular stitches stack in rows and columns, accumulating material until a whole is recognized. I venerate the small labors of the medium. It’s become a sacred practice rooted in commitment and devotion. Each stitch, made with two hands and one hook, passes through my fingers, creating an environment saturated with touch. This work attempts to harness a liminal space; one that exists between the psychological and the real, or fantasy and fact, and at the juncture of self and environment. These soft non-objects come from a place of love and tenderness, conjured in questionable but irrefutable truth.
@bayleeksart
Studio Songs: My Wife Thinks You’re Dead by Junior Brown