That long, transparent thing with its metamorphic container manages to astonish, every time, again. A squeeze of the trigger producing a bond. The cartridge, unwilling, is forced toward an unknown fate. Most often, it dances its drunken sway, spills out, loses form, builds slowly, then trickles and flows beyond control. Within minutes, it steams with gleaming vapors, slides from here to there and back again, grips everything and releases nothing. Or else, lets go all at once,

An entry hole and an exit hole.  Wounded fabric.  A bleeding path of trailing thread, torn, or lost along the way.  Hole after hole.  The needle rises and falls, at times brushing close to the face, at times far from it. Sometimes it vanishes behind a screen, and you can only guess from where it will return. A practiced hand finds, through the fabric’s dense weave, the next stopping point. The other hand, less skilled, is startled by the sharp flicker of pain.   Stitch upon s

We are both walking along the path in the park. We only come to the park on weekday mornings, when there are fewer people. You don’t like...

Unconditional love . I am eight and a half years old. I’m returning from school to the village using the shuttle like I used to every...

The identity of the space called atelier , within the educational field, originates from the theory of the Hundred Languages, which...