i made a shirt
and hung it in the forest
through line
Another month has passed.
I’ve spent the larger part of this year wanting to be more consistent with this newsletter. not for consistency’s sake exactly. not because I want to mirror the breakneck speeds of social media and consumption. But because I want to keep pace. Once a month doesn’t quite cover enough ground. I pick up multiple threads and want to carry them further. Instead I keep dropping them or hoarding their parts, waiting until I can see the ends. I’m too afraid to show up in the imperfection of a half baked idea. nothing cohesive yet. I keep forgetting that cohesion unfurls over time, in hindsight.
My goal is to spend these next few months trying something different; showing up each week with whatever breadcrumbs I’ve scavenged. sitting in the uncertainty of not knowing. choosing devotion over perfection. practicing how to be free.
Onward.
I made a shirt.
It began as yards of white cotton sateen. Step one was to dye it. I soaked the fabric in earl grey tea and wrapped the wet yardage around sheets of rusted metal (the same ones I found in May), then secured each piece with rubber bands.
relic
These were placed in plastic, weighted down and left to steep overnight.
In the morning, I unwrapped the pieces and hung them to dry. The reveal always feels like alchemy.
That was late July.
In August, I screen printed the dyed fabric at a local studio. I arrived there without a plan, hoping I’d loosen my grip, not be too precious.
On a whim, I turned one of my favorite sketchbook paintings into a print.
I forgot to take photos at the studio, but here are the fabric remnants post-shirt.
The pattern I created is a riff on a baseball jersey. cropped, curved hem, no front closure, bound with black cotton twill tape.
I used labels from the bags.
no merit, my north star
Two weeks ago I went to the forest and hung it from trees.
A collaboration of sorts. A returning to. Everything began here with the steel pipe.
In hindsight I can see the path, or at least the many individual moments that lead to this particular one. All predicated on curiosity and desire. not birthed by intellect, nor driven by rightness. a practice in not knowing. in no merit.