“"Speak to the rocks," my father once told me, as if they could answer back."Не бойся, если уколешься,” my grandmother would say, it means "don't be afraid, if you get pricked," her hands steady as she stitched.I grew up between those two ways of knowing. One taught me to listen to the land, to see time and pressure and held within material. The other taught me through labour, through repetition, through the patience of working with the hands.At the time, they felt like small instructions. But they stayed with me.Years later, when my father lost parts of his memory, those words became something else. The stories he once carried began to slip, leaving gaps I couldn't fill. Around the same time, I lost my grandmother, and with her, a way of knowing that was never spoken, only practiced.I began to understand memory not as something stable, but as something that can fracture and disappear. But not everything was gone.I could still return to the places my father showed me. I could still collect from the land, work with materials shaped by time and pressure. I could still follow my grandmother's way of making, through stitching, repetition, and care, where meaning is built through touch rather than words. That is where my practice begins.I work through processes of collecting, layering, and repair, bringing together materials, textiles, and mark-making to create surfaces that hold traces rather than complete narratives. My work does not try to restore memory, but to understand how it persists elsewhere, in material, in gesture, in what remains.I make work to understand what we inherit beyond memory, not through what we can recall, but through what we continue to carry.”