The cypress has long functioned as a living witness to what remains after loss: often found in cemeteries and memorial landscapes, its quiet, contemplative posture marks a place where presence and absence collide. 

Appearing at three different scales, the cypresses in Companions resist a linear understanding of time, suggesting instead that past, present, and future continuously inhabit one another, finely layered and stitched together. The trees become bodies that carry traces across generations, suggesting that memory, care, and grief are never solely individual experiences, but move (between) bodies over time. 

The cypresses are patch-worked and quilted. Many of the fabrics come from my grandmothers and great-grandmothers fabric drawers, or were taken from worn out clothes that were passed through generations in my family. In a more personal sense, the cypresses are also an ode to my youth and to the networks of care, labour, and memory embedded within these materials.