at Sylvan Gallery

Is a love letter to the urge to collect little trinkets, the

feeling of discovering precious finds in forgotten purses and pockets, the nostalgia of love notes from long gone bag lunches, the practice of making every scrap count, and all the tiny trash that is really treasure.

 

it is a love letter to femmes. the children of those who meticulously sewed affection into quilts, baby bonnets, and even dishtowels. the historians who look at faded black and white family photos and remember everyone's name. the people who won’t let being called overly sentimental keep them from letting their hearts break and find reasons to love again and again and again. this is for the friend who is really more of a sibling. the one you can call to be mad and they will always be on your side. the type who will be the first to remind you that you had it in you all along, and who never thought you were ordinary. we are the ones who smile when the sun hits our face and surprise even ourselves when we cry at a crash of waves. we don’t mind that with time memories grow rosy. we aren’t afraid to admit we were wrong and stand up when we know we were right. we know who we are is expansive, malleable and inclusive. we face down our own shadow and keep finding reasons to love ourselves. we see the sacred in you and we hold it reverently.

 

and when it comes to ephemera, we know that something is precious because it was ever here, not because it is here forever…

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