Rotary cutters and gridded cutting mats wrangle softly textured seersucker into careful geometric forms with well defined edges and clear definitions. These finely measured patterns are the blueprints for constructing garments that rest against our bodies.
A box pleat smartly sewn into a cotton shirt, when distilled to its underlying form, reveals the simple elegance of interlocking geometric planes. Felled seams are framed with uniformly interrupted parallel lines that appear to hover in space. Sometimes, raised plackets and back yokes call to mind horizon lines and the simplified vocabulary of abstract landscape paintings.
These associations come flooding back to me. I love them all. The folds of a lace curtain against my newly potted hyacinths, and the sun-dappled cotton sheets that I wrapped myself in the morning I decided not to get up and make coffee, and instead, lie in bed and stare out the window.
These are some of the fleeting moments I hold in my mind, quietly suspended in memory. I replay them, let them go, and feel them come back. They are vignettes of stories without clear edges: they lack definition or lucid structure.
Geometric frames stained the color of clay. Crisp cotton eyelet stretched and pulled tight. These delicate, barely-there volumes nod towards ephemeral moments in time and give them physical presence. They are airy, incomplete visual narratives.
Looking at them, I have some loose approximation of the stories they illustrate. I wait. I let my mind go to work, pulling in the coastal tide of memories that fill out and give weight to their bony silhouettes.