Displacement always ruptures one’s reality and creates a sense of discontinuity. Over the past three years I’ve felt especially disconnected from my past – both physically and emotionally. Each time we recall an event, the memory shifts; over time, it becomes less an original scene and more a psychological imprint. We edit details to fit the present. That fluidity is a survival tool, a way to rewrite the past so we can stay with the now.
My recent work gathers and arranges fragments of remembrance. It’s sparked by small, precise visuals tied to place and time – a certain plant, a piece of trim, a wallpaper pattern. I often lean on digital fabrication for its promise of objectivity. The process demands standardization, tidy systems, clean simplifications – as if everything could be kept under control. Yet inside that order are delicate interdependencies: misplace one element and the whole structure falters.
Alongside that, I return to textile practices that have been familiar to me since childhood – embroidery, quilting, weaving – whose logic is the opposite. They are sequential, tactile, labor-intensive. The body leads, and the physicality of the process can quiet the mind. I try to braid these approaches, holding them in tension: to get as close to documenting memory as I can while remaining as far away from it as feasible.