It’s funny how one sample leads to another with almost no effort, and how each adds a little more information to the incomplete picture of where it’s all leading.
While I’m doing this, I’m thinking about the difference between carving this image into rock, which is permanent, and stitching it onto cloth, which isn’t. There are hardly any surviving samples of prehistoric cloth because, being plant or animal matter in origin, it disintegrates and rots away to nothing. Just like us, in fact. The impermanence of cloth is one of the reasons I choose textiles for expression rather than paint. I like the way it wears, tears, fades and generally shows its age; the way its physical substance becomes less robust the older it gets. I like the fact that one day it will cease to exist, in exactly the same way that I and my mortal remains will cease to exist. Cloth grows old alongside us in a way that paint or carving on rock doesn’t. You almost can’t help feeling a kind of kinship with something that behaves like us.