god bless america?, 2018.

Hand embroidery on vintage quilt & vintage ribbon. 

What does one do with an irreparable quilt, especially knowing that a woman (women?) poured love and hours into its intricate stitches? What does one do when the country, ideals, health, and faith feel beyond repair…when logic and systems seem worthless? Do my stitches protect this relic of Americana, or have I obliterated it with my own pointless effort? Whose work saves/protects/destroys/blesses: Mine? Yours? Politicians’? God’s?

Sometimes the hands are the only way to process. Perhaps illogical laboring inches helplessness towards hopefulness, content with no answers.


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