Where do I begin? As an artist, I question my abilities to create composition, my sense of color, and my sewing skills — but I have to quickly erase those thoughts and just START. Scrap quilting found me in the middle of my graduate studies for another art form (ceramics). I signed up for a workshop with Sherry Lynn Wood, a notable quilter and teacher, and was immediately mesmerized by what a few pieces of clothing and scrap fabric could become once pieced together. Quilting felt energetic, and the joy felt limitless. And it still does today. It gave me another material to play with apart from clay.

Right now, my living room in Lebo is divided into two sections. One side is a restful area with a cozy couch and colorful art on the walls. The other side? A full-on sewing room — with pins, thread and textiles everywhere. I’ve got stashes of fabric in different prints, colors and cuts, all waiting to be turned into an improvisational quilt someday. When I start designing a quilt top, I usually give myself some parameters: maybe four or five fabrics in the same color palette or complementary colors. Other times, I just go for it, grabbing the wackiest fabric I’ve been avoiding and forcing it to work. That mindset of “make do” came straight from Wood’s workshop.

In a world where consumerism pushes us to keep buying for that “perfect” project, working this way feels liberating. It’s less wasteful, and honestly, it’s cheaper. That said, I’m not perfect — I’ve definitely wandered the aisles of my local craft store, leaving with a heavy bag, a long receipt and a coupon for my next visit. I get the thrill of buying materials. But for me, the real responsibility comes in the making.

I often think about the quilters of Gee’s Bend, who created art out of necessity using tattered uniforms and sackcloth. They found creativity in limitation, and that’s the kind of space I want to work in, where I feel “stuck” in a good way. When I push through those moments, reworking and reimagining things, I eventually get to a place where everything clicks. The composition makes sense, the colors and patterns coexist, and I can finally say, “Oh yeah, I knew it all along.”

My appreciation for art goes beyond my own practice. I deeply respect the artists and craftspeople who wrestle with their materials to create something meaningful. It reminds me of what my professors in art school always said: “Trust the process.” I know it’s a cliché, but like all clichés, it rings true. In cutting, sewing and piecing things together, I slowly work myself out of that tight space into one that feels right.

And in doing so, I end up creating something I didn’t think I could. I surprise myself every time. Like when that wacky silver fabric I’ve been avoiding turns out to be the perfect piece to pull it all together.