Every finished tapestry is a document — of light in a particular season, of a landscape visited, of a question that took years to answer.
I’ve been thinking lately about archives: what we keep, what we let go, and what keeps itself. A woven piece, properly cared for, outlasts nearly everything else we make by hand. The fibers hold their tension; the structure remembers its making.
My studio is full of work from thirty years ago that still surprises me. Not because I’ve forgotten making it — I remember clearly — but because the work knows things I didn’t know I knew at the time.