Mapping the Area Surrounding the Pratt Library
02/2024
Four seasons ago, a professor challenged us to create our own “polyphonic assemblage”—a term introduced by Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing to describe making that invites multiple perspectives; hence relations and even temporalities. In contrast to the clarity, efficiency, and reproducibility demanded by design as it was taught to me, polyphonic assemblages are messy and entangled. Polyphony allows for dissonance—that is, melodies that don't seem to follow a single rhythm. Indigenous knowledge systems, non-human actors, ancestral memory, intuition—these too are welcomed as part of composition.
My response to this prompt took the form of a quilt: a tactile map of the Rose Garden at Pratt Institute. Where conventional cartography relies on measurements and coordinates obtained with lasers and scanners, this map used data drawn through physical contact. I deliberately removed my glasses, which rendered me functionally blind. I couldn’t see anything clearly past my nose, let alone a notepad held at arm’s length, so I used my hands and feet to collect information. I rubbed ink onto surfaces and captured impressions on paper. I carved the textures I felt into Pink Pearl erasers. It had just rained that day, and the ground was soft beneath my feet. The air carried the scent of wet soil and crushed leaves. Even the starlings' chirps seemed muted by the humidity, their calls deeper in timbre. As I crouched low beside a patch of damp earth, I recognized the bitter scent of lichen.
But also, this exploration of quilting and embroidery stemmed from a need to reconnect with comforting past experiences. Having worked with textiles as a child, assisting my grandmother with her quilt projects, I saw this medium as “just right” and made so much inherent sense.
But also, this exploration of quilting and embroidery stemmed from a need to reconnect with comforting past experiences. Having worked with textiles as a child, assisting my grandmother with her quilt projects, I saw this medium as “just right” and made so much inherent sense.
At the time, I felt my project didn’t yield anything new. It was difficult to imagine any value for the quilt other than a decorative object. But doesn’t it capture a specific place and moment—not with visual accuracy the way a photograph would, but through a felt record of an encounter? The quilt is a fragment of that afternoon: the humidity, the colors, the way the ground curved beneath my steps, the way my palms stung after pressing too long against bark.
Photographs