INSIDE AS OUTSIDE
2017-2020
After more than three years hand sewing thousands of discarded moth cocoons, my vision narrowed to the point of a needle. Day after day, in one hole and out another, then repeat. Where did all the holes come from? Moths wrap themselves in a protein-rich material extruded during their four larval stages. If any of these stages are missed (especially the final, emergence stage), transformation is thwarted. This happens when cocoons are harvested and boiled to remove their silk fibers.
Once the silk is reeled off, the insect's fragile, lacy inner container is exposed. The holes fragment and distort light the same way tree leaves create dappled patterns from sunshine. Hand sewing them together was my personal act of creative, environmental resurrection (in some cases the thread used was sound wire containing a recording of Verde's "Messa da Requiem")--that god-like stance that art briefly bestows on an artist. Time and again I held the cocoons up to my face. This, I imagined, was the view a gestating larvae had as it went through one of the most complete metamorphoses of any living creature. This was what profound transformation looked like from the inside out. As the sewing progressed, I often felt I'd become the larvae, the cocoon my life.
Throughout this years-long process, the cocoons, much stronger than they appear, fought against my vision, prompting the constant question: Do I allow the material (fate) to dictate the shape of the piece, or do I impose my will on the cocoons? My answer was the struggle we each face every day.
After more than three years hand sewing thousands of discarded moth cocoons, my vision narrowed to the point of a needle. Day after day, in one hole and out another, then repeat. Where did all the holes come from? Moths wrap themselves in a protein-rich material extruded during their four larval stages. If any of these stages are missed (especially the final, emergence stage), transformation is thwarted. This happens when cocoons are harvested and boiled to remove their silk fibers.
Once the silk is reeled off, the insect's fragile, lacy inner container is exposed. The holes fragment and distort light the same way tree leaves create dappled patterns from sunshine. Hand sewing them together was my personal act of creative, environmental resurrection (in some cases the thread used was sound wire containing a recording of Verde's "Messa da Requiem")--that god-like stance that art briefly bestows on an artist. Time and again I held the cocoons up to my face. This, I imagined, was the view a gestating larvae had as it went through one of the most complete metamorphoses of any living creature. This was what profound transformation looked like from the inside out. As the sewing progressed, I often felt I'd become the larvae, the cocoon my life.
Throughout this years-long process, the cocoons, much stronger than they appear, fought against my vision, prompting the constant question: Do I allow the material (fate) to dictate the shape of the piece, or do I impose my will on the cocoons? My answer was the struggle we each face every day.
