'Ties that Bind' delves into the often invisible labor of women, particularly the repetitive, unacknowledged tasks that form the backbone of domestic and social life. This labor encompasses physical, mental, and social aspects, reflecting the multifaceted roles women play. Using a simple burgundy yarn—Red Heart, a brand synonymous with practicality and accessibility—long, continuous crocheted chains are fashioned as both metaphor and material record of these efforts. The yarn’s ubiquity, its lack of uniqueness (no dye lot), and its medium weight mirror the perceptions of women's work: necessary, enduring, but frequently dismissed as ordinary.

This work unfolds through two installations. The first piece is not interactive; it features a crochet hook displayed on the wall, with a chain descending to the floor, forming a tangled mess. The crochet hook remains attached to a ball of yarn, indicating that the work is paused, not complete. This piece invites viewers to reflect on creation, interruption, and the fact that this invisible labor is never truly complete. It is necessary and unending, reminding us of the ongoing nature of these contributions.

In the second piece, the crochet hook and chain are still connected to the ball of yarn, which rests atop a dark red, floral-patterned armchair. The chain cascades down, pooling around the chair in a tangle. This installation invites the audience to sit in the chair and actively continue the work of creating the chain. The chair, one of a pair, mirrors the one I use in my living room—a space relegated to domestic life—where much of this work begins. The chain travels with me from errands to the doctor’s office to work, symbolizing not only the physical aspects of invisible labor but also the mental load women carry. As I juggle these tasks, the act of crocheting serves as a grounding practice amidst the chaos.

For the longest time, I referred to this piece as ‘the world’s longest umbilical cord,’ a name that captures both the nurturing role of women and the unspoken, often unseen labor that binds families and communities together. In a world where men often proclaim their achievements, women roll up their sleeves and quietly get the work done. These chains embody this dichotomy—each stitch a silent testament to the countless, uncelebrated actions that sustain our world.​

The title, ‘The Ties that Bind,’ reflects the complexity of these connections—how the invisible labor of women forms essential bonds of support and obligation within families and communities. By rendering these labors visible, “The Ties that Bind” confronts the ways in which such contributions are woven into the fabric of our daily existence yet remain largely unseen. Each length of yarn reflects the persistence, resilience, and tenacity of those who continue to build, mend, and create without fanfare.

This piece, in both iterations, will never finish, only pause.

I made my first stitch in the chain on October 29, 2023.

As cliché as it may sound, my son is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Apologies to my husband, but he would agree—our kiddo takes the cake for both of us. I never realized how challenging it could be to balance parenting and work. Explaining to my son when he was smaller, why Mommy has to go to work was tough. The heartbreak for both of us when I left and the joy when I returned were intense. Hearing "Mommy, you're home!" followed by hugs and the instant demand to "Play with me, Mommy," sent us off to play with his trains, cars, or Minecraft (on peaceful mode).

On the flip side, some days, especially through the demands of work and life all I want is a moment of quiet. The incessant "Play with me, Mommy" can be frustrating. There's so much to do, and playing is the last thing I have energy for. I get irritated, then guilt descends. I think of families who have lost their children due to illness or violence and realize how lucky I am to have my little boy. Guilt also comes from knowing that one day, he'll grow up and won't ask me to play anymore.

Instead of dwelling on the guilt or letting irritation take hold, I've started making artwork with my son. We play with watercolor, crayons, pencils, markers, and his toys. Once everything is dry, I work back into the drawings we make together with stamps, ink, markers, and other mixed media materials, reflecting on his words as I work. This way, we both have fun together. I get to teach him about one of the things I love most—art—he gets to be creative with me, and when the collaborative part is done, I have my quiet time when he's asleep to process my thoughts on life as a working mom and my feelings about the world he will grow up in.

Detritus is an ongoing series that delves into the journey of creating a work of art, exploring the fascination with the process versus the finished product. It asks the question: which holds more value?

Is it the process itself—the act of creation? This stage can be tedious, mentally and physically taxing, and often results in remnants that are neither beautiful nor aesthetically pleasing, and sometimes even repulsive. Yet, it brings a deep sense of satisfaction.

Or is it the completed product? Though it may be beautiful, it risks being dismissed after only a cursory glance in our visually inundated world, where attention spans are ever-shortening.

Which should be celebrated more: the process or the product?