Textiles remember. This is not something we necessarily ask of them, nor is it something we can divert them from doing. They do it regardless. The memory of the textile is unremittingly democratic: moments of joy and tragedy are recorded on the surface and embedded into the structure of cloth, without permission and often without intention. Textiles remember, in part, because they are hostage to their own fragility. Unlike metal or stone, the lifespan of a textile is not dissimilar to that of our own bodies: newness gradually replaced by wear and tear until worn out.

As a Queer, Puerto Rican, self-taught hand weaver and embroidery artist living and working in Philadelphia, I am deeply attuned to the memories and stories textiles hold. Educated as a fiction writer, my written work has explored themes of Latinidad, queerness, and belonging. These themes, along with the inherent difficulties and pain within those identities, drove the narratives and characters I created.

In my textile art, I seek to uncover the joy and unravel the complexities that exist within those same identities. Through practicing traditional weaving and embroidery techniques and bringing them into a contemporary space, I deepen my connection to an ancestral past of queerness and Puerto Rico while honoring my personal identities and their various overlapping entanglements.

Life and memory are immediately transferable to cloth: a stain on a T-shirt can represent a delicious meal shared with another, or the scent of a loved one can be imprinted on their bedsheets. Queer artists embrace the intimate and political characteristics of cloth, and queer textile artists navigate the ways in which textiles can transcend categorization beyond their redemption from craft and placement within the conventions of fine art. This consideration leads to broader interrogations about appreciation and value, directly confronting the constructs that determine what constitutes art.

Through my work, I aim to at least archive something, or keep something in this world to pass along, so that there are not more gaps created. By preserving relationships and culture in a fragmented family, my art becomes a vessel for memory, identity, and connection.