“What life sewed for me?”
I was trapped wandering and prancing in my childhood beliefs and dreams.
The sweetest linen dress mom sewed silently and stealthy throughout the night, hung over my bed, greeted me in the morning like a sweet miracle from a fairy. What a lovely day. I turned 39, with my ambiguous self. A self, shaped by other selves (others). But how did this happen. Portraits of you and me, crowded by noise and strangers. Women, men and children, life goes by.
What a life.
Filled with companions, femininity, rage, pain, instincts, lust, curse, fear, enlightenment, love and migration.
These dresses, covers, poses and scenes are not a cliché.
They are actual self-portraits. They are healing.
So real an answer for vagueness, emptiness and pain and thus a cure.
Each needlework was like a brush painting my soul on the fabric.
Needle sunken in my fingers and on the fabric were all my unspoken pains, humiliations, threats and all hidden screams, like a needle dipped into my soul.
I tied together the threads of all my scars, I am a woman. A woman from earth.
I poured out the lustrous of my being and with a thin net, I buried my sadness in the earth and I grew up, I blossomed. I am a woman all of heart.