The Precarious We

2023
Big Sur, California
thumbprints, muslin, native grasses, locally harvested clay









I asked neighbors for their thumbprints thinking I could weave equality from grass and skin.

Some refused. They knew what fingerprints mean in the wrong hands, the wrong files. The textile came out full of gaps. I made a ceramic vessel with thumbprint indentations too. It exploded in the fire. Something inside it had been holding its breath.

Now the fragments live in charcoal. The grass holds what it can. The thumbprints float between the fibers like guests who might leave at any moment.