On Sunday I walked to the studio and photographed the square of fabric.
It was hardly a square anymore. Only the interior perimeter of the kilometer of sewn thread roughly conformed to 90 degree angles. Everything else bunched, and wrinkled and twisted and circled. There was a large sail of fabric in the middle of the square. A pouch that could be pushed and manipulated.
Barely any of it wanted to touch of the wall.
All of these forms and shapes the extrapolations of the tiny motions first caused by the thread in the first days of the work.
