Meditations on Myrtle Grace...

In the days leading up to and after my mother's death I find myself stitching ...
​
Piecing together fragments of memory. Not the algorithmic social media- "On this day" kind of instant gratification and fragmented representations of surface self but the analogue kind. Slow, archealogical explorations, meditations through a lifetime ...the stuff that exists deep down. That kind of "Bergsonian -memory -is- matter" stuff that is woven into the fibre of our souls.


Stitch…my mother the daughter… stitch…my mother the woman … stitch …my mother the lover… stitch…my mother the seamstress…stitch… my mother… stitch… my friend…Myrtle Grace. These are meditations on love.