At the beginning of the pandemic, under shelter in place orders, I couldn’t summon my attention towards my art. Instead I cooked, cleaned drawers, dusted off my sewing machine and made cloth masks to distribute. I reverted to an intense focus on caring for my dwelling, and making things with my hands that were useful. Slowly and quite unwillingly, I settled into a quarantined domestic existence.
The isolation brought a humble inward point of view, narrowing my scope to the things around me for inspiration. The house, the plants, my pets, a favorite vase; I was grateful for these sturdy forms that gave me calm and comfort. I developed a stronger connection to the house I am sheltering in. And then somehow, it happened. I was able to produce works out of the visceral experience of this time.
I patched together scraps of canvas, linen, and yarn that I had on hand. Small pieces that did not matter in the past had a great value now. I found embroidery thread, white paint and plaster, a few tubes of paint. Working with fabrics and traditional embroidery resonated with a history of domesticity. It all came together as a small gesture of gratitude to the things we have and appreciate now. I started making small paintings daily and that practice made me look forward to the next day.