Household Items Remind Me of You

Dearest,

Household items remind me of you.

I draw portraits of our home. The still life is the only life I may have. I make end tables out of burlap, wallpaper out of scraps. I weave backgrounds because I can touch them.

When you leave the apartment, I am afraid you won’t come back. I am making portraits of my household items, memories that can be touched. The loveseat doesn’t replace you, it is a reminder of you.

I see furniture instead of people. My relationships are with my dining set. And fruit bowl. I look in my studio and stare at my desk. It looks me in the eyes.

For my portraits, I combine my handwoven fabric with store-bought samples to not forget what each has to offer. I use machine-made fabric because an assembly line is a luxury. When did I know touching your hand would be a memory?

Images of objects are sewn into the fabric and journal entries are scrawled onto the background. The drawings and the text are a conformation, a quiet voice, a whisper. The composition makes it clear.

I’m alone before you are gone.

Sincerely yours.