At this moment, I feel that this title and description best capture the essence of my final project.
I’ve done two photoshoots against two different walls, and it became clear: everything needs to be arranged differently.
The tapestry belongs more to the wall than the floor—its presence asks to be vertical, not grounded.
The chickens work well, but they need to be shifted slightly, repositioned with care.
The masks, too, might find a better rhythm in a new sequence.
The label—just a little tilt, a quiet disruption of symmetry.
Let this be a transitional moment, not a conclusion.
On Monday, I’ll rework it all. A new composition will emerge.
Where the Sky Got Sewn to the Soil.
Materials: burlap, canvas, acrylic, paper, woollen thread
This textile installation draws inspiration from mesyatseslovs—ancient, embroidered calendars made by women in the Northern forests to track the natural rhythm of life: the thawing of soil, returning light, the days when bread rises differently.
At the centre of the tapestry, a red woollen calendar is stitched—red like warmth, blood, and the thread found in every woman’s sewing basket. Around it, constellations from the Greek sky form another kind of map, connecting soil-bound rituals to celestial rhythms. A red thread stretches outward, linking fragments of time, memory, and gesture.
Three burlap chickens act as curators of the work—symbols of quiet wisdom, domestic myth, and humour. Nearby, three handmade masks—once worn in performance—invite visitors to transform, reflect, and perhaps become something other: the wise one, the practical one, or the poet mid-recital.
This piece is a meditation on invisible labour, women’s hands, ancestral time, and the threads—both real and imagined—that bind sky to earth.
