About stories, nature and textiles

I work with deadstock fabrics, which I call “sleeping.” The fabric is there, as if asleep, not dead. I like the idea that it is just waiting much better. Now I get my deadstock fabrics mainly from a gentleman who had an old trousseau store. Because of the layout of the store, a lot of these fabrics are stuck, you can't get them easily. When I go to visit my family, I always come by and find fabrics that I may have been eyeing long ago but couldn't get my hands on. It's like everything picks itself, I just have to know how to wait, and then reason with the material and see it as part of a bigger process.

In the summers I spent in the country house I was constantly confronted with the dimension of dreams and the rawness of life. My grandmother loved to tell stories and, in this safe and beautiful place, she would tell us about brigands, about children who fell into the well, and it was impossible to discern reality from myth. And then there was the everydayness of the countryside: playing with a goat that was then eaten, or seeing a kitten run over by a car.

A context in which nature lives and dies with incredible force, and this marked my way of seeing life: as something nature selects for you.