Weaving, as if to bind colour to time - pulled through, like breath through ribs, memory through weather. A threshold, held in tension, line by line.
Each work carries the grain of touch. You can’t rush a loom. The pigment settles into warp like mist into grass - slow, irreversible, alive.
And the images? They hover, ache, ask nothing. They remember and somehow, in all that evocative transience, they ground. Woven to stay.