A lifetime ago, I unfurled a roll of Japanese rice paper and wove a tapestry with delicate pen strokes. The piece measured to be six feet in length, a drawn subconscious built from criss-crossed lines. I set the waves with gesso on the back which discolored the ink and added further depth I did not ask for. It was a strange world that was to be read like a story, dark and light undulating within the abrasive drawing, similar to how an etching scars paper. “Much like Rembrandt,” my professor cleared their throat. This human would later go on to “read” the plexiglas goddess I created a year later, weighing on my self-esteem further.

It’s subliminal weaving-drawing, I declared, that shares the cycles of life and pulls reference from the hero’s journey. Just another Bayeux Tapestry, I think to myself now, and I believe they meant to compare me to Durer.