I want to talk about aesthetics simply because I can’t talk about them. They are language. They are feeling. They are the pleasure of stitching and stitching and then seeing a sublime and invisible line appear. It’s beautiful. But it’s not the same as the fetishisation of a brushstroke because it took time. I pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled until it appeared. It was so slow and leisurely and incredible to watch. Aesthetics is a feeling. You just know. You can’t define it. I can’t conceptualise it or understand it. Like standing in front of a Frankenthaler or a Martin or a Rothko. That is the goal. Feeling. That is why I like art. And I don’t really understand it.

Aesthetics is like standing back from a motion and just looking at it. Enjoying it. Aesthetics is slowing down.

I labour because I value myself.