On knotting slowly

Every piece begins as a single thread and a first knot that I usually undo three times. The mesh only starts to exist after a few rows, when the loops begin to lean on each other and the thread remembers what shape it is becoming.

I don't use patterns. I work until the width feels right against my own shoulders, and then I keep going until the tails are long enough to move when I walk. That's the only real rule: it has to move.

“It has to catch the light, and it has to move. Everything else is negotiable.”

The sequins

The sequins are set by hand as I go, never all at once. I place them where the light would land if you were standing in a clearing — a few near the face, more at the shoulders, a scatter down the tails like water left on a web after rain.

Why the forest

I photograph every piece myself, in the places that shaped it: moss, cold water, a room with old painted walls. The colours come from there — olive, gilt, sage — and it feels right to bring them back.

If you are waiting for a piece, thank you for your patience. It's being made slowly, on purpose.