I painted a series of family portraits using watercolour, but intentionally left out facial details. Only the outlines and body gestures remain, dissolving the identity of each person. The decision came from my reflection on memory — how, over time, the faces of those we love begin to blur, yet their presence and emotional weight stay vivid.

The watery nature of the medium mirrors this fading process; the pigments merge and disappear, just like memories that flow and transform. By removing the facial features, I wanted to shift the focus from who they are to how I remember them — as emotional silhouettes rather than clear images.

Through this process, I realised that absence can be more powerful than detail. The blankness carries both loss and tenderness, suggesting how memory often exists between clarity and forgetting.

Aside from the paintings, I began transcribing memory into tangible objects. Using Photoshop, I pixelated my family pictures into pixelated patterns — pixel fragments that suggest how memories are reconstructed through digital distortion. The photographs were then folded into rings, turning visual traces into wearable, intimate objects.

In other tests, I threaded red yarn around printed images and put them into hand-made clay frames. The yarn symbolizes feeling and continuity, while the fragile clay symbolizes the frailty of memory.

Assembling these objects was like stitching together pieces of feeling — attempting to catch evanescent images through touch and repeat. Each piece is both reconstruction and acknowledgment: that the past can be reconstructed, but never fully remade.

By doing this, I realized that making such a quantity of tiny works caused me to find out what I'm most drawn to: softness, layering, and the process of retaining memory through material. However, I also learned the limitation of scale and narrative — every piece has a story, but together they sometimes lost focus.

For my next step, I would like to develop a more integrated installation that unites some of the selected objects — maybe 5–10 of them — to form a spatial narrative. I am thinking of using light or translucent layers to connect them, similar to how memory intersects rather than staying discrete. I would also like to experiment with suspending compositions or open constructions that permit materials to breathe and interact with air and light. In this way, the "100 Objects" can be transformed from a repository of leftovers into a more immersive, affective space.

I watched as he uses material to create memory into space. Instead of showing the picture of a place, he builds it out with fabric and string, taking something solid and turning it unphysical. The light filtering through his work was absorbed into the piece itself, as if memory is something that you can walk through or look up at.

This experience caused me to re-think my own way of providing memory objects. His use of suspension and transparency influenced me — perhaps my objects, as well, might be suspended in mid-air, not the table. Perhaps memories are never the property of a steady surface; they can drift, overlap, and shift with light. I would like to pursue this in my next work, allowing my materials and feelings engage more with space, similar to how Do Ho Suh redefines memory as a poetic space.

At the same time, objects from the David Usborne Collection, such as the Back Massager and Beaded Apron, inspired me to think about the value of handwork and touch. These everyday and crafted objects both show how labour, repetition, and material choice can create emotional resonance beyond function.

Putting all these references together on Miro helped me to see my theme more clearly — it’s not only about material experiments, but also about how colour and making processes can reflect emotion, memory, and the human need for comfort.

I like how the apron shows care through details. It reminds me that even small, imperfect things can hold warmth and meaning. When I work with my own materials — like colour experiments in watercolour or wool felting — I also feel that same calm rhythm. Every layer and soft movement seems to hold a bit of emotion and time within it.

Looking back at my current work and research, I found that many of them are connected to soft and textile-based materials. These materials feel intimate, close to the body, and often carry emotion and care. This made me think that maybe my project is not about “material” in general, but more specifically about how textile or soft materials can record and express emotional memories.

I also understood the importance of forming my topic as a question rather than just a statement. This will help me shape my writing and critical thinking. I now want to explore how the process of making, through texture, softness and colour, can quietly communicate emotion and tenderness.

Some samples came out loose and imperfect, some too tight, some collapsed, but I realized that these “mistakes” are actually important. They show the moments where my hand hesitated, relaxed, or felt unsure. These small shifts are emotional traces — tiny records of how I was feeling while making.

The watercolor studies help me understand the emotional tone behind the textiles. The colors are soft, warm, sometimes a little foggy or blurred. When I translate them into yarn and wool, it feels like I am giving those feelings a texture that can be touched.

This stage is teaching me that my work may not be about precision or fixed form.
It may be more about softness, holding, and the quiet connection between the hand and the material.
Something gentle, slow, and close to the body.

What touches me is how she treats illness and vulnerability with gentleness rather than drama. The works feel soft, patient, and slightly distant, as if they are trying to protect something fragile inside. They do not try to explain; they just stay.

This helped me understand my own process differently. When I weave, crochet, or felt wool, I am also working in repetition. I am also pausing time. I am also trying to give form to feelings that are not always easy to speak about.

Her work reassures me that fragility can still have weight, and that delicate materials can hold complex emotional memory. I don’t need to force clarity or meaning.
I can let the work breathe.

But as I kept repeating the motions, something softened. Not because I suddenly became skilled, but because I realized that this process doesn’t need to be rushed. The yarn reacts to the warmth of my hands, and my breath slowly falls into a quieter rhythm. In these repetitive movements, I allowed myself to slow down and not push toward an outcome.

Sometimes I still tense up, especially when turning a corner — I worry about getting it wrong. But now I let myself pause. I place the yarn between my fingers, take a small breath, and then continue. Progress isn’t about becoming faster; it’s about learning not to hurry.

I can feel the relationship between my hands and the material becoming gentler. I’m no longer trying to control the yarn — I’m learning to grow with it. The squares are more balanced now, the petals of the small motifs unfold more naturally. It feels like a process of softening inward, of letting myself be held by the making.

In repetition, I find a quiet place to rest — and I think, quietly, I am changing.

I’m inspired by how she uses thread as a language of empathy — a quiet act of remembering through making.
In my own project, I also see stitching as a way to preserve emotional fragments and to give material form to memory.

The darker marks on the paper are not water stains; they are burn marks that I made intentionally with a lighter.
Introducing fire changes the atmosphere of the work.
It adds a sharper, more destructive moment—something that stains the paper quickly and cannot be undone.
It contrasts with the gentle, drifting movement of the watercolour.

I stitched small threads into these burnt points.
The threads are not meant to “repair” the surface, but to quietly acknowledge it:
something happened here, and I still remember.

Watercolour is fluid, fire is sudden, and stitching is slow.
These three different rhythms help me think about how emotions live in memory:
some fade, some remain like scars, and some are held together only through small, careful gestures.

This test makes me want to continue exploring how materials carry emotional traces.
Especially the stitched interventions—they feel like gentle responses to these burnt, touched, or wounded areas of the surface.

The raised embroidery stitches act like feelings that rise to the surface. Some are scattered, some cluster together, and some stretch outward, reflecting different emotional states. On the larger piece, the blended colour stain feels like a deep, settled memory, while the small stitched areas show gentle moments of comfort and fragility.

Through this process, I realised that the materials speak in their own way. Watercolour expresses emotional fluidity, and stitching becomes a repetitive act of touching and repairing. These pieces are not final works, but small reflections of how my inner feelings can take form through fabric.

Although the outcome is not fully successful in terms of touch, it helped me understand what I want more clearly. I realise that inviting the audience to experience softness, warmth, and comfort is important for my work, and any material that feels cold or distancing needs to be used more intentionally. This experiment shows me that emotional interaction through touch is sensitive, and even a small change in material can shift the whole feeling.

My intention was to explore how comfort and vulnerability can be communicated through touch. I hoped the softness would feel reassuring, while the uneven structure would suggest moments of tension or emotional fluctuation. After making and wearing it, I realised that the softness works well — it gives a sense of safety — but the “tension” in the form is not always clear. The irregular parts look interesting visually, but they don’t always translate into a felt emotional contrast on the body.

This made me notice how important body interaction is in my practice. When the material is on the wrist, the emotions I want to express become clearer. Looking at the piece alone doesn’t carry the same feeling. For my next experiments, I want to refine how the structure produces emotional shifts through touch — maybe by exaggerating tightness/looseness, weight, or changes in temperature or density.

This piece showed me that softness, looseness, and colour can form a small emotional landscape, but I still need to work out how different textures communicate different emotions more directly.

When worn, the piece rests lightly on the body, creating warmth without heaviness. This transparency and softness reflect the emotional qualities I wanted to express: something delicate, comforting, and slightly unstable, as if it could shift with each movement.

After making and trying it on, I realised that some parts of my intention worked, but not all. The colour gradient communicates emotional change well, and the softness creates the comfort I hoped for. However, the “instability” I imagined is not always clear—visually the looseness suggests fragility, but on the body it sometimes feels too gentle to express the emotional tension I expected.

Through this experiment, I learned how strongly colour and structure shape the mood of a wearable object. The looseness brings freedom, but I may need to explore more contrast—perhaps denser sections, tighter stitches, or changes in texture—to show emotional fluctuation more clearly. This piece helped me understand how softness, airiness, and colour can work together to create an emotional atmosphere, but also where I still need to refine the connection between intention and felt experience.

When I sketched them, I realised I was responding to a similar quality in each piece: curves that feel alive, gentle, and almost shaped by touch. These lines reminded me of how my own materials behave—especially when crochet and fibre naturally curl or fold. It helped me see that softness is not only about the material itself but also about the form it takes.

Some of the curved shapes in the Iranian tile even inspired me to recreate similar movements with my own yarn and felt. The mixed-material soft sculpture also made me think more about how different textures can exist together in one piece and still feel coherent.

This visit helped me understand why I’m so attracted to curling, folding and layered forms in my practice. They mirror the emotional qualities I want to express—things that are warm, close, a little blurry, and held inward. It also made me realise I should be more intentional when exploring shape, not only texture.

Moving forward, I want to develop more forms that grow naturally from tension, touch, and softness, and continue using curved, flowing lines as part of my emotional language.

As I continued working, something unexpected happened. The tension from the edge stitching slowly pulled the piece into a curled, gathered shape. This transformation wasn’t planned, but it became meaningful. The curled form felt like an emotion folding inward—more intimate, more protected, and more connected to what I want to express.

When the piece curled, the blended colours sat closer together, creating a deeper and softer emotional texture. The orange frilled edge behaved like an expressive line—slightly chaotic, fragile, and full of movement. The object felt much more alive compared to the flat version.

Looking back, the flat sample didn’t communicate emotional layering as strongly. Only when it curled did it start to hold tension and softness in a way that matched my intention. This made me realise I need to work more with three-dimensional and reactive forms rather than surfaces that stay still.

Moving forward, I want to explore how stitching density and yarn tension can intentionally create movement. I’m also interested in how these organic shapes can sit on the body—wrapping, folding, or pressing softly against the skin to create a tactile emotional experience.

Refining the title to Textile as Emotional Memory immediately made the project feel more focused. It also matched the artists I chose to study: Celia Pym, Diane Meyer, and Do Ho Suh. Although they work in different contexts, each of them uses textile in a way that connects strongly to memory, care, or the body. This helped me see that the heart of my research is not the textile object itself, but the behaviours and processes that textiles make visible—mending, covering, layering, transparency.

Rewriting the CRP structure also made me understand the importance of having clear conceptual links, rather than just grouping artists because they use similar materials. It pushed me to think more deeply about ideas like care, protection, and embodied memory, and how these ideas appear across different practices.

This reflection process has made me feel more grounded. I no longer feel lost or unsure about the “right direction.” Instead, I feel like I am finally speaking the same language as my research question. I now have a structure that is clear, specific, and aligned with the brief, and I feel more confident about moving forward into the writing stage.

Currently, I have gained a relatively clear understanding of my interest in the relationship between emotional memory, tactile experience, and textile materials. I am beginning to understand that emotional memory does not exist as a clear narrative, but is continually activated through bodily sensations, vague associations, and repeated touch. However, formally, I remain uncertain about what specific object or mode of wearing these explorations should ultimately lead to. This hesitation is not stagnation, but a necessary state of suspension, allowing me to maintain sensitivity to materials and experience.

Therefore, I have chosen not to impose premature functional or formal constraints upon the work, instead permitting ongoing mutual influence between material experimentation, sensory documentation, and the viewer's imagination. At this stage, my focus lies more on how the process generates meaning than on whether the outcome is already complete. For me, this open-endedness is not a lack of direction, but rather a research attitude that reserves space for future development.

What resonates with my own practice is her embrace of incompletion and openness. The empty areas in her compositions are not gaps but spaces of hesitation. Meaning is not declared; it is allowed to linger. Small gestures of colour and line hold emotional weight without becoming illustrative.

Her work reinforces my interest in memory as something unstable and fragmentary. Rather than describing emotion directly, she creates a condition in which it can be sensed. This encourages me to treat surface not as a background, but as a field where uncertainty and fragility remain visible, and where emotional traces can exist without resolution.

Working at a larger scale changes my physical relationship to the surface. My gestures become broader and slower. I cannot predict exactly where the pigment will gather or fade. This uncertainty becomes central to the work. The spreading edges, soft blooms and uneven concentrations of colour create areas that feel both present and unstable.

What interests me is how these uncontrolled expansions resemble emotional states. The colour does not describe a specific memory, yet it carries a sense of emergence and disappearance. The surface becomes a field where traces appear temporarily, then disperse. Some areas remain dense and saturated; others evaporate into pale atmospheres. This fluctuation reflects my ongoing exploration of memory as something fluid and unresolved.

By allowing water and pigment to interact freely, I relinquish the need for resolution. The work resists fixed imagery and instead holds a condition of suspension. The paper is no longer a passive ground but an active participant, shaping how emotion materialises and dissolves. Through this process, I am beginning to understand large-scale watercolour not as a medium for representation, but as a space for emotional movement and hesitation.

By combining wool fibres, threads, and semi-transparent sheets, I began to explore how traces can exist in layers—some visible, some partially obscured. The act of placing, stitching, and loosely fixing materials created moments where traces appeared fragile and temporary, as if they could disappear or shift at any time. This instability feels important, as it reflects my understanding of emotional memory as something არასolved, incomplete, and constantly changing.

The use of transparency was particularly significant. It allowed multiple traces to coexist without fully merging, creating a sense of depth and hesitation. Instead of a fixed image, the work operates as a suspended surface where marks, fibres, and colours hover between presence and absence. The loose connections (threads, pins, sticks) also suggest that traces are not permanently fixed but held in a delicate balance.

However, these tests also revealed limitations. The outcomes remain quite scattered and lack a clear sense of intention in how traces are presented to an audience. While the material language begins to emerge, the relationship between trace, structure, and viewer experience is not yet fully resolved.

Moving forward, I need to develop a more consistent methodology—questioning not only how traces are made, but how they are layered, framed, and encountered. I am particularly interested in pushing the tension between visibility and obscurity, and in refining how traces can accumulate without becoming overly chaotic.

Overall, these quick experiments are valuable not as finished pieces, but as a way of thinking through making—where traces are not designed, but allowed to appear through process, contact, and material behaviour.

The boundaries between colours are unclear. Some areas remain light and almost transparent, while others gather into more saturated traces. These variations are not planned, but emerge through the interaction between water, pigment, and paper. I am interested in this lack of control, as it allows the material to hold a kind of hesitation and uncertainty.

The surface becomes a space where multiple moments exist at once. Colours overlap without fully blending, leaving behind subtle residues and marks of movement. These traces do not describe anything specific, but suggest a presence that is difficult to fix or fully grasp.

However, this also raises questions about intention. While the softness and fluidity are effective in conveying ambiguity, the work risks becoming purely aesthetic if not grounded in a clearer methodological approach. I need to consider how these colour behaviours can be translated into other materials, such as textiles or felt, and how they can move from a flat surface into more spatial or tactile forms.

This experiment is important as it shifts my focus from making images to observing processes. It suggests that meaning does not come from representation, but from how materials behave, interact, and leave traces over time.

Different tensions produced distinct effects. Tighter areas appear more condensed and heavy, forming concentrated traces, while looser sections become more open and unstable, suggesting dispersion and movement. This contrast made me realise that traces can be expressed not only through colour diffusion, but also through variations in density and structural tension.

I deliberately avoided controlling the final form, allowing the crochet to shift and deviate as it developed. As a result, the structure appears irregular and slightly chaotic. This aligns with my understanding of emotional memory as something fragmented, layered, and constantly changing, rather than complete or ordered.

When placing the crochet structures onto the watercolour surface, two different systems of traces begin to interact. The watercolour operates through fluidity, permeability, and unpredictability, while the crochet is more bodily, repetitive, and rhythmic. This layering led me to consider how traces might be translated across different materials, rather than remaining within a single medium.

However, at this stage, the relationship between them remains relatively direct, functioning more as a superimposition than a true integration. Moving forward, I need to explore how the logic of watercolour—its diffusion and blurring—can be embedded within the fibre structure itself, rather than acting as a background.

This experiment marks a shift from isolated material testing towards a more methodological exploration across materials. It also helps me understand that traces are not only outcomes, but processes that continuously form and transform through material interactions.

What interests me most is how her work operates through absence rather than presence. The structures appear incomplete, fragmented, and translucent, allowing space and light to pass through them. This creates a sense that memory is not something fixed or fully recoverable, but something partial, unstable, and continuously dissolving. The viewer does not see a complete image, but encounters something that hovers between visibility and disappearance.

This strongly connects to my own exploration of emotional memory as something that cannot be clearly defined or represented. In my work, I use watercolour, wool, and crochet to create blurred surfaces, layered colours, and soft structures. Similar to Singh’s practice, I am interested in how materials can hold traces without becoming fully resolved forms.

However, while Singh’s work focuses on architectural memory and spatial absence, my work is more grounded in material behaviour and emotional sensation. Her use of thread creates line-based, almost drawn structures in space, whereas my practice explores density, softness, and diffusion through fibres and colour.

This comparison helps me to reconsider how I approach structure. Instead of treating textile only as surface or texture, I can begin to think of it as something that defines space, holds absence, and creates a sense of suspension. It also encourages me to explore how my work might become lighter, more open, and less materially dense—allowing traces to exist not only through accumulation, but also through reduction and disappearance.

Overall, Singh’s work expands my understanding of how traces can exist spatially, not just on surfaces, and suggests a direction where my material language could move towards a more suspended and unresolved state.

This strongly connects to my own watercolour experiments, where I allow pigment to spread, bleed, and dissolve across the surface. Similar to Rothko, I am not interested in creating defined images, but in building a space where colour can carry emotion. The transitions between colours in my work are often unclear and unstable, suggesting a state of hesitation and incompleteness that reflects my understanding of emotional memory.

However, while Rothko’s work is visually controlled and carefully balanced, my process involves a higher degree of unpredictability. The behaviour of water and pigment introduces chance, allowing colour to form traces that I do not fully control. This difference is important, as it shifts my practice towards a more process-led approach, where meaning emerges through material interaction rather than composition alone.

Rothko’s work also encourages me to think about scale and presence. His paintings create an enveloping experience, where the viewer is drawn into the surface. In my practice, I begin to explore how a similar sense of immersion might be translated into textile and fibre-based forms—moving from flat surfaces into layered, tactile structures that can be encountered more physically.

Overall, Rothko expands my understanding of colour as more than a visual element. Colour becomes a spatial and emotional condition, capable of holding ambiguity, depth, and resonance. This informs my approach to both watercolour and textile, where I aim to create environments of feeling rather than defined representations.

This strongly relates to my own practice, where I explore how watercolour can be translated into fibre-based forms. In my work, colour initially exists as a fluid and uncontrollable surface, but through crochet and wool, it begins to gain structure, density, and tactility.

Mardones’ work shows how colour can move beyond the surface and become something spatial and embodied. The way her textiles extend, stretch, and even hang suggests that traces are not fixed, but continue to grow and shift over time.

This encourages me to further develop the relationship between colour and structure in my work. Instead of treating textile as an addition to watercolour, I can begin to integrate them more fully, allowing colour, fibre, and form to emerge together as a unified system of traces.

After producing these individual pieces, I began to connect them together using long threads. The connections were not strictly planned; instead, they were formed gradually by observing how each fragment related to the others. Through this process, the overall structure slowly emerged from the accumulation of many small parts.

This method made me reflect on how structures can grow from fragments. Each piece retains its own individuality, but once connected, new relationships appear between them. The work therefore develops through a process of assembling partial elements rather than constructing a predetermined object.

This hanging method transforms the work from a flat textile into a spatial structure. The threads form a network across the wall, while the crocheted fragments act like nodes within this system. As the pieces hang, they create tension between different parts, producing soft curves and irregular connections.

Light also plays a role in this installation. The open structure allows shadows to appear on the wall, extending the work beyond the material itself. Through this experiment, I began to see crochet not only as a textile surface but also as a way of drawing lines in space through threads and fragments.

Within this network, I inserted small areas of coloured fibres. These fibres sit between the crocheted threads like fragments suspended within the structure. The colours appear soft and diffused, reminding me of the way pigment spreads in watercolour. Instead of forming clear shapes, the colours remain blurred and ambiguous, creating floating patches of colour within the network.

This experiment helped me think about the relationship between structure and colour. The crochet acts as a skeletal framework that holds the composition together, while the fibres introduce softness, colour, and atmosphere. The open spaces between the threads allow the materials to remain light and unresolved.

Through this process, I began to see crochet not only as a textile technique but also as a way of building structures through lines. The threads function like drawn traces, holding fragments of colour and material within a loose and shifting system.

At the initial stage, the structure mainly consisted of thread lines and open spaces. The crochet acted like a skeletal framework that defined the overall shape while still leaving large areas unresolved. This open structure allowed the work to remain permeable and visually light.

In a later stage, I began inserting small clusters of coloured fibres into the structure. These fibres sit within the crocheted network like fragments held temporarily by the threads. The colours appear soft and diffused rather than forming clear shapes, which creates a contrast between the linear structure of the crochet and the soft density of the fibres.

Through this process, I started to think about how fragments of colour and material can be held within a loose structural system. The crochet works as a framework that supports and contains these fragments while still allowing them to remain unstable and unresolved. This experiment helped me further explore how structure, softness, and colour can interact to create a sense of suspended and incomplete material traces.

These works mainly consist of watercolour tests and several fibre structures made through crochet. I placed the watercolour papers and the textile samples together on the table in order to observe the relationship between colour, surface and fibre. However, this way of presenting the work was not very successful. My original intention was actually to hang these pieces rather than place them flat on the table. When the samples are suspended, they create a different and more spatial effect. Because of this, in the next presentation I would like to insist more on my initial idea and present them in the way I originally imagined.

The watercolour experiments mainly explore how colour diffuses in water and how blurred edges can form on the surface. I experimented with using bubble water instead of clean water when painting. The bubbles left circular marks on the paper. These marks feel very close to the idea of “trace” that I am interested in, because they not only show changes in colour but also record the process of making. The traces make the making process visible rather than leaving the surface as only an abstract colour field. This made me realise that the behaviour of materials and processes themselves can also become a way of expressing emotional memory.

On top of the watercolour surfaces, I placed several crochet samples. These crochet structures were not made following a fixed pattern, but were produced more freely and intuitively. Different small parts were made separately and then combined together. During the discussion, the tutors mentioned that my current experiments are still in a relatively “safe” zone, and suggested that I push the experimentation further, for example by working with larger scales or exploring more variations in structure. They also reminded me that when developing methodology, it is important to clearly explain both what I am doing and why I am doing it, connecting the “what” and the “why”.

Moving forward, I would like to continue exploring the relationship between colour diffusion in watercolour and fibre structures. I also want to experiment with working at a larger scale and allow the work to gradually move from a flat surface into a more spatial presence.

What interests me about this process is that the marks are not entirely controlled. The bubbles move, expand and disappear in unpredictable ways, which creates a surface that feels organic and fluid. These circular traces make the process of painting visible, rather than presenting the image as a finished and controlled composition. The surface becomes a record of actions and material behaviour.

The bubble marks also create a subtle texture that interacts with the diffused colour fields. The pigments spread through water in soft, blurred edges, while the bubbles leave clusters of small circular forms. This contrast between flowing colour and dotted traces introduces another layer to the surface.

Through this experiment, I began to realise that the traces left by bubbles relate closely to my research on emotional memory. Memories are often fragmented, incomplete and difficult to grasp clearly. In a similar way, these marks appear as dispersed residues across the surface rather than forming a clear image.

This process suggests that material behaviour itself can become a method of expressing memory. Instead of directly illustrating a memory, the work allows colour, water and bubbles to generate traces that feel closer to the unstable and shifting nature of emotional experience.

I would like to continue developing this process and explore how these bubble-generated traces might translate into textile structures or larger surfaces.

Through this, I realised that my practice is consistently exploring certain conditions: ambiguity, hesitation, trace and suspension. These are not just formal qualities, but are closely connected to how I understand emotional memory.

For example, in blurring, the dissolving of edges removes fixed boundaries and creates a sense of uncertainty. This feels similar to how memory exists — not as a clear image, but as something unstable and shifting. The bubble water experiments were particularly important, as the circular marks are not fully controlled, but left as accidental traces. This made me think of trace as something that emerges through material behaviour rather than being intentionally constructed.

In layering, I am interested in the relationship between revealing and concealing. Layers overlap without clear separation, allowing previous marks to remain partially visible. This creates a slowed reading of the surface and reflects how memories can be obscured but never completely erased.

In the stretching and crochet structures, I began to notice the role of tension. The form shifts depending on how tight or loose the yarn is, creating instability. The material records these tensions, which made me think of making as a process of registering actions rather than simply forming an object.

With repetition, I realised it is not only a method but also something that changes the perception of time. Repeated actions accumulate small differences, and this gradual build-up feels closely related to how emotional memory forms.

The sections on soft structure and scale also helped me understand that the work is not fully controlled. The form changes through touch, weight and gravity. Larger or smaller loops affect how the structure is read, sometimes holding space rather than forming a fixed shape.

Overall, this table helped me connect my experiments and understand the relationships between different material behaviours. It shifted my thinking from what I am making to why these processes matter and how they operate on a sensory and emotional level.

At the same time, I recognise that my work is still within a relatively comfortable material language. Moving forward, I need to push this further by increasing scale, introducing more variation, and testing unfamiliar approaches so that these ideas can be more clearly experienced in the work.

By applying dye onto the crochet and placing it onto paper, I allowed the material to act as both structure and tool. The yarn absorbs and transfers pigment unevenly, creating soft, blurred impressions. What is left on the paper is not a direct image of the object, but a partial trace — fragmented, diffused, and difficult to fully define.

I found that the translation from object to surface is important. The crochet piece exists as a three-dimensional, tactile structure, while the print becomes a flattened residue of contact. This process introduces a distance between the original form and its trace, which reflects how memory operates — not as a complete or stable image, but as something that is transformed and partially lost.

Colour also plays a significant role in this set of tests. The dyes spread unpredictably through the fibres, blending and bleeding into each other. This creates areas of ambiguity where boundaries dissolve, similar to the earlier watercolour experiments. However, here the colour is influenced by the structure of the yarn, meaning that material and pigment are working together rather than separately.

The imprints left on the paper reveal the pressure, moisture, and contact time of the material. Some areas appear more defined, while others almost disappear, suggesting moments of presence and absence. This makes the surface feel like a record of an event rather than a composed image.

Through these experiments, I began to understand crochet not only as a way of constructing form, but as a way of generating traces. The work shifts between object, action, and residue. It is no longer about creating a finished piece, but about exploring how material behaviour can register time, touch, and transformation.

At this stage, the results feel promising, but still exploratory. Moving forward, I want to test larger scale structures, increase variation in loop size and tension, and explore different ways of hanging or suspending the crochet so that the relationship between structure, gravity, and trace can become more pronounced.

The first method was directly controlling the amount of water on the paper. By increasing or reducing the water, I noticed that the traces changed significantly. When less water was used, the marks became clearer and more controlled, allowing the structure of the thread to remain visible. In contrast, using more water caused the pigment to spread and dissolve into the surface, creating softer and more unstable edges. This made the image feel less fixed and more ambiguous. The water itself became an active part of the process rather than simply a tool for applying colour.

The second method involved transferring the image between two sheets of paper. I first placed the dyed crocheted structure onto one sheet, then after a period of time transferred the remaining moisture and pigment onto another sheet. Compared to the direct method, the transferred image appeared much lighter, fragmented, and incomplete. Some areas disappeared almost entirely, while others remained only as faint residues. This process introduced a stronger sense of distance and delay, as if the image was slowly fading through time.

Through these experiments, I realised that water quantity not only changes the visual outcome, but also changes the emotional quality of the work. The direct water application produced stronger and more immediate traces, while the transfer method created quieter and more fragile residues. Both methods helped me think about emotional memory as something unstable, partial, and constantly shifting between presence and absence.

The smaller loops created denser and clearer traces because the structure was more compact. The shorter distance between the threads allowed the pigment to gather more heavily in certain areas, producing a stronger sense of presence. This result made me think about emotions that feel compressed or trapped, making the image appear heavier and more tense.

In contrast, the larger loops formed a looser and more open structure. Because of the wider spaces, the water and pigment spread more freely across the paper, and some areas only left very faint traces. This made the image feel lighter, more fragile, and unstable, with a sense of gradually fading away.

Through this comparison, I realised that loop size not only changes the visual density of the work, but also affects how emotions are perceived. Smaller loops suggest accumulation and tension, while larger loops create a feeling of looseness, loss, and ambiguity.

This experiment helped me understand that scale itself can become a way of expressing emotional memory. Even when using the same material and colour, simply changing the size of the loops can create completely different emotional atmospheres and spatial qualities within the traces.

At the beginning, the surface appeared relatively open, with large empty spaces between the threads. As more layers were added, the structure became denser and more compressed. Some areas started to overlap heavily, while others remained exposed. This uneven distribution created a tension between visibility and obscurity, where certain traces became dominant and others almost disappeared underneath the surface.

When transferred onto paper, the layered structure produced fragmented and partially incomplete marks. The overlapping threads created moments where colours mixed together, while lighter areas only left faint residues. Compared to earlier experiments, the traces here felt less controlled and more unpredictable because the different layers interrupted each other during the transfer process.

What interested me most was how layering changed the sense of time within the work. Each added layer felt like an accumulation of repeated actions, almost like emotional experiences slowly building on top of one another. However, despite the increase in density, the final transferred image still appeared fragile and unstable, with many areas fading or breaking apart.

Through this process, I began to think about layering as a metaphor for emotional memory. Memories are rarely experienced as single isolated moments; instead, they overlap, interrupt, and partially conceal one another over time. The layered structure allowed me to explore this sense of accumulation, instability, and gradual disappearance through material and process.

Before cutting, the structure appeared more stable and interconnected, with the loops supporting each other across the surface. After cutting certain sections, the form immediately became looser and less controlled. Some areas collapsed inward, while others began to separate and shift direction. This introduced a stronger sense of fragility and instability into the structure.

When transferred onto paper, the broken structure produced incomplete and fragmented traces. Compared to earlier experiments, the marks appeared more interrupted, with visible gaps where connections had been removed. Some traces almost disappeared entirely, leaving only faint residues behind. The image felt quieter and more fragile, as if parts of the memory had been lost or erased.

What interested me most was the contrast between connection and disconnection. The act of cutting was simple, but it dramatically changed the emotional atmosphere of the work. The intact structure suggested continuity and tension, while the cut structure introduced feelings of rupture, separation, and absence.

Through this process, I began to think about cutting not only as a physical action, but also as a metaphor for emotional interruption. Memories are often incomplete, fragmented, or partially inaccessible over time. By breaking the loops and allowing the structure to shift unpredictably, the experiment helped me explore emotional memory as something unstable, vulnerable, and constantly changing.

I used soft looped structures and bound selected areas using thread and rope. Once tied, the structure immediately began to compress inward. The loops lost some of their openness and flexibility, becoming more condensed and controlled. Certain areas bulged outward under pressure, while others were tightly restrained, creating an uneven tension throughout the form.

What interested me most was the contrast between softness and restriction. Although the material itself remained soft and tactile, the act of binding introduced a feeling of constraint and discomfort. The structure appeared trapped between expansion and compression, as if the material was attempting to move while being physically held back.

Compared to earlier experiments, this piece felt more sculptural and bodily. The tied sections created visible points of tension, making the form resemble something fragile but restrained. The repeated bindings also interrupted the natural flow of the loops, breaking the continuity of the structure and forcing it into compressed segments.

Through this process, I began to think about binding as a metaphor for emotional pressure and containment. Emotional memories are not always released freely; sometimes they are held, suppressed, or compressed over time. The bound structure allowed me to explore how tension can exist inside soft materials, creating a balance between vulnerability and control.

I displayed several crocheted and looped structures alongside their transferred traces on paper. Presenting both the physical structures and the residue images together helped me notice the relationship between presence and absence more clearly. The suspended textile pieces created a sense of fragility and instability in space, while the paper works recorded traces left through contact, pressure, water, and movement.

One important aspect of the presentation was scale. Compared to my earlier small tests, the larger suspended pieces began to create a stronger bodily and spatial experience. Hanging the work allowed the structures to shift naturally, which connected back to my interest in instability and emotional uncertainty. I realised that suspension itself is becoming an important part of the work rather than only a display method.

The feedback also helped me understand the importance of presenting the experiments as a connected body of work instead of isolated samples. The repetition of loops, traces, layering, cutting, and binding started to form a visual language across the table and hanging structures. I began to see how these processes could communicate different emotional states through material behaviour rather than direct narrative.

At the same time, I noticed that some areas still need further development. Certain traces remain visually subtle, and I want to continue testing ways to make the relationship between structure and residue more balanced. I also want to explore larger scales, more complex layering, and how the suspended forms interact with light, shadow, and movement within space.

Overall, this presentation helped me recognise that my project is moving beyond individual experiments towards a more coherent methodology. The combination of soft structures, transferred traces, and suspended installation is beginning to create an atmosphere that reflects emotional memory as unstable, fragmented, and continuously shifting.

In the second stage, I introduced more water and allowed the pigment to travel further across the surface. This created softer edges, internal bleeding, and unpredictable marks. Compared to the earlier tests, the forms began to feel more unstable and emotional. The surface started to hold traces of movement rather than fixed shapes, which connected more closely to my interest in emotional memory and uncertainty.

For the final experiment, I layered looping linear structures over the painted forms. This changed the relationship between the background and foreground completely. The transparent blue and green lines created tension between control and accident, structure and fluidity. Some areas became visually dense while others remained open, producing a sense of interruption and containment. I found that the overlay partially obscured the softer watercolour beneath, which reflects how emotional memories can become fragmented, hidden, or difficult to access fully.

Through these tests, I realised that layering is becoming an important part of my methodology. The interaction between soft stains and structural lines creates a stronger emotional complexity than either element alone. However, some areas became visually overcrowded, causing the composition to lose balance. Moving forward, I want to continue experimenting with scale, transparency, and spacing, particularly by introducing suspended textile structures and larger looping forms. I am also interested in exploring how physical materials such as thread or crochet could interact directly with painted surfaces to create more tactile and unstable traces.

The overlapping areas became the most important part of the work. Some colours remained visible while others faded underneath later layers, creating a sense of partial disappearance. This reflects how emotional memories are often unstable and difficult to separate clearly. Certain moments remain vivid, while others dissolve, merge together, or become distorted over time.

I also noticed that the transparency of the watercolour created a feeling of depth without using solid structure. The floating circles appear suspended and weightless, almost like fragments of memory drifting across the page. The soft edges and bleeding pigments introduced unpredictability, making the composition feel fluid rather than controlled. This loss of precision became important conceptually, because memory itself is rarely sharp or complete.

At the same time, the repeated circular forms created a rhythm across the surface. Although the individual marks are simple, their accumulation produces emotional density. Some areas feel crowded and compressed, while others remain open and quiet. This contrast helped me think about how memories can gather unevenly, with certain emotional experiences becoming concentrated while others fade into the background.

Through this experiment, I realised that repetition and transparency can communicate emotional memory more effectively than direct imagery. Moving forward, I want to continue exploring layering through larger scale compositions, suspended materials, and textile structures. I am particularly interested in how physical layering and translucent materials could further blur the boundary between presence and absence, making the work feel more immersive and unstable.

What interested me most was the transformation between presence and absence. In the first stage, the crocheted structure existed physically on the fabric, acting almost like a temporary drawing. However, after removal, the work shifted into something less stable. The remaining stains and dotted traces suggested that something had once existed there, but could no longer be fully recovered. This process connected strongly to my interest in emotional memory as something incomplete and difficult to hold onto clearly.

I also noticed that the softness of the fabric changed the behaviour of the pigment significantly. Unlike paper, the textile absorbed water unevenly, causing the edges to diffuse and fade into the surface. Some areas became concentrated while others almost disappeared completely. This unpredictability made the outcomes feel more vulnerable and intimate. The transferred marks resembled faded imprints, worn surfaces, or fragments of information slowly dissolving over time.

The final outcomes became progressively more minimal. As the traces grew lighter and more dispersed, the work began to communicate absence more strongly than form itself. I found this reduction important, because it allowed the viewer to focus on subtle emotional atmospheres rather than recognisable imagery. The empty space surrounding the marks also became part of the composition, emphasising silence, distance, and disappearance.

Through these experiments, I realised that transfer and residue may become an important methodology within my practice. Rather than presenting textile structures directly, I am increasingly interested in how materials can record temporary contact and leave unstable impressions behind. Moving forward, I want to continue testing larger textile surfaces, suspended fabric installations, and repeated transfer processes to explore how emotional memory can exist through fading traces, layering, and partial visibility.

What interested me most was how the overlapping structures disrupted clarity. The boundaries between the red and blue forms became difficult to separate, especially once the transfer process blurred the edges and softened the details. The final print no longer documented the crochet structure precisely; instead, it recorded only partial traces and broken outlines. This shift from physical object to faded residue connected strongly to my interest in memory as something layered, unstable, and incomplete.

The transferred image also revealed unexpected textures and interruptions. Some sections printed clearly while others almost disappeared, leaving gaps and fragmented marks across the surface. I found that these inconsistencies made the work feel more emotional and fragile. The incomplete transfer suggested a process of remembering and forgetting at the same time, where certain details remain visible while others dissolve into the background.

Compared to my earlier residue experiments, this outcome introduced a stronger sense of compression and entanglement. The overlapping crochet structures created denser visual areas, producing moments where the image appeared tangled or trapped within itself. This layering began to suggest emotional accumulation rather than isolated traces, which feels important for the development of my work.

Through this experiment, I realised that layering physical structures before transfer can create more complex and unstable surfaces. The process allows the work to move further away from direct representation and closer toward emotional atmospheres formed through absence, interruption, and partial visibility. Moving forward, I want to continue experimenting with multiple overlapping structures, larger scales, and suspended layered textiles to explore how emotional memory can exist through compression, concealment, and fragmented traces.

The transfer results were not as visually strong as I initially expected. Many of the printed areas became fragmented or incomplete, and some sections almost disappeared entirely into the background. However, through this failure, I noticed that the grid produced a different kind of surface language. Rather than creating clear structural outlines, it left behind scattered marks and subtle textures that resembled stains, residues, or damaged impressions.

What became interesting was the tension between visibility and disappearance. The open spaces within the grid interrupted the transfer process, causing the image to break apart into isolated fragments. This created a feeling of instability and erosion, as though the structure was slowly dissolving or fading from the surface. The incomplete marks also introduced a quieter and more delicate atmosphere compared to earlier denser prints.

I found that the grid structure added a particular texture that could not be achieved through watercolour alone. The repeated intersections of thread created small patterned imprints that suggested traces of contact and temporary pressure. Although the overall outcome felt unresolved, these subtle details brought a new tactile quality into the work and expanded my understanding of how textile structures can record presence indirectly.

Through this experiment, I realised that unsuccessful outcomes can still reveal important material possibilities. While the transfer itself lacked clarity, the fragmented imprint and dispersed marks introduced a new visual language connected to fading memory, interruption, and instability. Moving forward, I want to continue developing these grid structures by testing different densities, layering methods, and scales, particularly to explore how incomplete imprints and damaged surfaces might communicate emotional fragility more effectively.

What became most interesting was the reverse side of the fabric. While the front surface retained more visible structural detail, the back developed softer colour transitions and unexpected organic patterns. The pigment bled through the material unevenly, creating atmospheric stains and subtle layered textures that felt less controlled and more emotionally resonant. I found that these accidental patterns communicated a stronger sense of fragility and memory than the direct textile forms themselves.

The overlapping structures also created varying levels of compression and transparency. Dense areas absorbed more pigment and produced darker, concentrated marks, while open sections allowed the colour to diffuse outward into softer gradients. This contrast introduced a rhythm across the surface, moving between clarity and dissolution. The textile structures no longer functioned simply as objects, but as temporary systems that shaped the movement and behaviour of the pigment.

I was particularly drawn to how the fabric recorded traces differently from paper. The absorbent surface softened edges and allowed the marks to sink into the material, making the final image feel embedded rather than placed on top. The stains appeared closer to emotional residues or fading impressions, which connected strongly to my investigation into unstable memory and layered emotional experience.

Although the process remained experimental, this test helped me realise that the reverse side of a material can sometimes hold more emotional complexity than the intended front surface. The accidental bleeding, blurred forms, and fragmented stains introduced a softer and more immersive visual language. Moving forward, I want to continue exploring double-sided textiles, suspended fabric layers, and larger-scale installations where the front and back surfaces interact differently through transparency, shadow, and transferred traces.