I’d like to say that I have no regrets, but I’d be lying. My regrets are everywhere, hiding, haunting, scribbled, stitched. Traces surface like souvenirs in the lines on my face or when I speak with a tone. Voices tell me to drag them out, burn them to ash and let them go. But I love them. Each one holds a life, faded, like a stain bleached out by the sun.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on regrets since the passing of my aunt in September and spending months rummaging through her home. An excavation of a life, or should I say lives, as my grandmother once lived there too. Hidden pieces of them layered in all corners. Pieces I wish I knew deeper. It got me to thinking about my own secrets and ghosts hidden in boxes and tucked away on shelves. I’ve started pulling them out and transforming them into sculptural sketches. Mending, healing, transforming...this will be an ongoing project.
