These rags are a beautiful, emotional, mess. They smell horrendous and instantly transport me to a childhood spent around cars in the garage with my father. The colors are warm and inviting – flesh. They beg to be touched, handled, which mimics how they were made. Their creation served a purpose, having a very specific, useful job. They are shop rags. Lots of hard work and manual labor went into the creation of each and every cloth, but no more (or less) than the ripped up t-shirts my father usually uses in the garage. The beadwork is what sets them apart. It is unnecessary, frivolous even, but it is beautiful and makes an otherwise masculine object very feminine and fragile. It is me – pink, flowery, girly and yet somehow boyish. I would follow my father wherever he went, whatever that meant, and I would do it all in a dress. I never wanted to stay in the house, I wanted to explore and get messy, fix things and build things with my hands. I’ve poured my soul into these rags. I cherish them for the fact that their creation was dependent entirely upon my father.
Title to come. These will one day become an installation.