little harlequin

My mom used to make all our Halloween costumes. I have memories of going to the fabric store, poring through all the patterns, selecting the perfect costume, and treasure hunting just the right fabric.

One year I chose a harlequin clown costume. It was the pompoms and neck ruffle that won me over. I wore that costume with such pride. (Swipe to see little me.)

Two decades later, in art school, I found myself creating this line drawing of that costume. It was part of a bigger piece and an even bigger show. Something about the sadness of lost arts and obsolete technologies.

But what it really was was 20 something me looking back at little me. At that little harlequin. A mixture of humor and sadness. Even then.

And now, here I am, another 2 decades later, 40 something me looking back at 20 something me looking back at little me. And looking back at mom. Her humor and her sadness.

And this month, I have committed myself to learning to sew on my mom’s old sewing machine. This is something that’s been calling to me for quite some time. For whatever reason, I wasn’t ready. But I am now.

And part of my resistance to sewing, I’m realizing, and this may sound a little absurd, is that one of my favorite things in the world is a little stack of fabric with frayed edges. Nothing I have ever stitched has come close to the poetry of that little pile.

And so, in an effort to move forward and make the work, I am also documenting these little piles that feel so precious to me. There is something so human about frayed edges and loose threads. That the beauty is in the imperfection.

And these are the things that are swimming around in my head and in my heart right now.

Sewing and stitching.
Lineage.
My mother.
Her mother.
Humor and sadness.
Looking back.
Nostalgia.
Longing.
Fabric piles.
Frayed edges and loose threads.
The ephemeral nature of memory.