The paint holds secrets, blurred facial features, the anonymity of those beloved. Hands grace the face of the table. The table holds them there – something to gather around, sit under, and talk over.

A surface must already exist in order to leave a trace. The paradox being that sometimes you are not leaving anything, but taking something away.

A brief manifesto for a project surrounding the caring society, ecofeminism and textile based work.

A priest, married to an atheist, who doesn’t go to Church.

The cellular pattern warped and waned across the ridges, jagged white lines cutting through the dark.