by YSABEL SACRAMENTO
IN EACH passing day, there is a different combination of fabrics seamed together—denim on leather, lace on cotton, lace on silk. Sometimes, there is no fusion.
The thread runs along smoothly on the seam line, binding both cotton and lace together. An ambiguous sensation rushing through each line of stitch to another.
Outside, there are familiar combinations of clothing covering foreign figures: denim on leather—this person might be a black sheep; lace on cotton—a good daughter; lace on silk—a mistress; or a singular chiffon—sheer yet rough. A heap of assumptions of people we do not know, a judgment made from a narrow lens. The art of unsolicited opinions and criticism.
How many stitches will it take to know these people? How many loops of thread in order to reach familiarity, to stitch fabrics together, to recognize each other’s textiles? How much does it take to acknowledge that we are different today, and we will be tomorrow, but we are still the same?
Denim, leather, lace— a variety of fabrics worn, and yet they are still what they are: clothing, an exterior of a human being. Garments are an idea proposed, a summary displayed, and a cloth on a human body.
Each day is different, and we wear new combinations—a new fabric that briefly introduces us to strangers on the street, and the same goes for them. Each day, we wear a different identity, or perhaps an idea.
In every seam, there is a different us—but it is still us. F