A series of questions that led me here
June: When I stood in the wind and photographed the sand, I received evidence of the movement of the air, something usually only perceptible as goosebumps. Could I make a collection of textiles that heightened the sensation of cloth against the skin?
September: I sat on the ground and stared at what I had made. Why must a garment rely on a body? What does the container become when the form that fills it is absent?
November: I weave on a simple frame joined with a few nails, wobbling against the wall of my bedroom. I thread the warp: I fill my lungs as I stretch my body upward, pulling my arm out as if shooting a bow, then I exhale, folding my limbs into a ball against the floor. Is there meaning in this labor, in these rhythmic motions?
January: I leave school each day with more questions than answers on how to be the person that each student needs. Can I spin uncertainty into curiosity? I want my students to know that purposeful doing becomes knowing, that there is intelligence in intuition, and that surprising things happen when teacher and student wonder alongside each other.