Hand stitching isn’t fast work. It’s a quiet skill that feels tenuous, nearly lost when placed in a contemporary context. Slipping fast away, like childhood, like domesticity, like safety beneath the weight of something handmade. I sew because I don’t know what it is to not sew, despite the connotation of “minor art” or “women’s work.” It is perhaps this exact connotation and expectation of what a “quilt” is — protective, warm, soothing — so much like what defines the domestic role, that begs it to be pushed against. Hard. I take the traditional, beautiful handwork that I was taught as a girl, then later as a professional seamstress, and couch it within the painful or frightening or uncomfortable.
I cut myself apart. I sew myself together
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