Small, insignificant glimpses of a home well-lived in – tangled chair legs, an unclimbable tree, the spicy scent of cinnamon potpourri – accumulate over time and have become integrated into my sense of self. To crochet these forms is to echo that gestalt structure; singular stitches stack in rows and columns, accumulating material until the whole can be recognized. These soft non-objects come from a place of love, tenderness, and fantasy. Their truth is questionable, as memory is a faulty system, and at the same time undeniable.
Yarn accumulates to bring form to a space that no longer exists, and never will again. I rely on distant recollections of lived experience – of a sensuous life within the boundaries of familial and domestic space. Then, it was an amalgamation of activity. Childhoods seeped into the carpets and walls, imbuing the house with a certain kind of poetry. Now, the house on Church Street exists only as psychological remnants rendered in yarn.
