To me, pleats are the trace of life; the slow, very slow† work of nature: time engraved in matter, geological folds, ruts in mud, veins in wood, ripples on the surface of water, wrinkles on faces and hands, furrows in fields, fabric sliding down a body... itís always the subtle, moving, silent, mark of action.
That is why I see myself reflected in folds, in the slow and silent work that enables me to slip into the past life of fabric.
Inside it, I can feel the plant and the animal which gave birth to it, the country that bore it.
When it is hand-made, my soul is embodied in my eyes and fingers, I am where other women have laid theirs.
When I stroke it, I can feel the bodies that have used it as a sheet or a garment.
Fabric is, to me, a rare, intimate, sensual material, full of emotions.
Its colour, natural, brown or black, satisfies me, so rich its texture is.
And what about my pleats? I deeply love the idea of not spreading out, of not showing off. I love the idea of condensing and hiding, then smoothly revealing; of creating little (surface) with a lot of (fabric); of creating complex things with simple ones, of burying my secrets deep inside my folds, of hiding my doubts there, my fits of anger, my tortures, my pleasures....
I love the idea of life flowing through my folds as water flows along the folds of earth, as sap flows between the folds of wood, as blood flows in the hollow of oneís elbow.