bridget martin

Layers and textures, ragged edges, tattered pages, fabric and threads and random stitching.

Wabi sabi, imperfection, unexpected connections.

Making stuff that is soft, melancholic, hopeful, peaceful, simple, quiet (not all revolutions are loud).

         Sometimes I keep my words hidden for fear of rejection but other times they spill out, refusing to be curtailed, finding a space on the page.

The words don’t have to be refined or clever, they need to be honest and real, reflecting a moment but always open to change. I see this when I look back at old journals and read the words I wrote or borrowed. I become swept up by memories and emotions; each journal a kind of record of a period of my life.

This is how our stories are told – a gathering of fragments that loosely fit together thus allowing space for growth and reflection and discovery. A journal holds these moments, a part of the story, a whisper of our inner lives.