A few years ago, I began cataloguing my archives, some six thousand pieces to be combed through, their codes deciphered. As memories related to each garment resurfaced, I focused most intently on the invisible pieces, the ones that lack any official history or moment in the limelight. It took me some time to find a synonym to define them that seemed less crude than “leftovers”… but I failed, because leftovers are what they are. Hundreds of ideas cast to one side, stepping stones used to jump elsewhere, dreams dreamt yet unrealized, now materializing in my present, seeking some clue as to t...
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