Fabrics softly encase our lives, billowing behind us or soaking up our tears; comforting or reminding us of our pain. All the fabrics that compose the pillow heart and the heart pillow lived with me a for a significant time and were even part of other artworks (amulets, companions, guides) before they became this one (ultimately, the video). ​ Men; they preach or hold space, filling blankets and robes throughout the nights and days. They spew and imbue, staining and changing the fabric around us without even noticing. Sometimes, men’s bodies tremble with the deadweight of ages of patriarchal religion, their sensitive hearts swelling, aging, hardening. Mine, too, hardens. The fibers around it yellow and fray, and so I sew. As investigation I sew; as a prayer I repeat without quite knowing to whom. ​ The pillow below is in my grandmother’s bedroom. I do not consider it an artwork. The pixels that make up the video below, which, to me, evoke so much stench and sentience... I don't know what they are, whether they harm or heal.