There are pieces of a life that arrive at different times, shaped by different pressures, and never quite align to the same measurements. It accumulates the way patches accumulate on something that has been mended more than once.
I am interested in what happens when those mismatched pieces are not hidden but visible.
Patchworking becomes a way of making the internal visible, taking the parts of a self that feel unresolved, contradictory, or slightly wrong, and presenting them together, in full colour, without trying to smooth them into something more coherent. Nothing here is disguised as a whole. The seams stay visible.
This is not a project about people's clothing choices or fixing anything. It is a note to myself about the decision to stop waiting for the pieces to match before embracing them.
Not a diagnosis, not a resolved state, just an honest report of where things actually stand, patched, mismatched, and still standing.