It’s nothing, it’s nothing, I said to myrself, nothing nothing.

I collect clothes that have sentimental value to me. Mother’s clothes. Vests made by my aunt. My own, which are once shed skin. And others whose form, material or pattern appeal to me. I subject them to a sensitive embroidery process, even though the needle pierces the fabric, the final effect is a form of healing the wound, a soft covering of pain or taming fear. Warm knots of yarn in various sore places of the body.

Clothes are our second skin, soaked with our scent, they witness the events of our lives, accompany us in difficult and sometimes traumatic moments. It takes the sweat of fear, stress, nervousness, fear. It absorbs blood and other secretions, recording them in the form of stains.

By focusing for a long time, we can feel where in the body there is the most tension, where it causes pain or stiffness. Where fear lives, when it pushes us down or chokes us in the throat.

On clothes, I look for those places that require healing, hugging and stroking. Covering them with a thick layer of warm and soft growths made of wool, I mark places of special care that require our attention and touch, whispering: It’s nothing, it’s nothing, you said to yourself, nothing nothing.

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