Forty years at the loom has taught me that texture is time made visible — each pass of the shuttle a small mark against forgetting.
When I began weaving in the early 1980s, I was drawn to the physicality of it: the resistance of the warp, the weight of a packed weft, the way a finished piece holds itself. I didn’t yet understand that what I was really learning was patience. Not the patience of waiting, but the patience of attention.
A tapestry is never made quickly. It cannot be. The structure of the medium forbids it. And in that constraint, I’ve found something close to freedom.