What If
What If begins with possibility.
It is an invitation into a quieter way of seeing—one where imagination is not an escape from reality, but a way of paying closer attention to it. Delicate woven forms emerge somewhere between the botanical and the imagined, the familiar and the unknown. They need not become anything recognisable.
Their possibilities are enough.
Natural fibres intertwine with pearls, dried flowers and fine strands of gold, bringing together materials that speak of tenderness and resilience, fragility and permanence. Suspended by fine threads, each work exists in a space between thought and form, as though caught in the brief moment before an idea settles into certainty.
The series does not ask us to imagine another world. Instead, it gently suggests that we might imagine this one differently.
The poems accompanying the work echo this invitation. Together they celebrate wonder, possibility and the quiet freedom of imagination, reminding us that perhaps there is value in holding on to the parts of ourselves that continue to dream.
THE PURPLE HOST
by Emily Dickinson
Who took the purple from the rainbow, And gave it to the distant mountains? Who sowed the sunset’s burning gold Among the fields of clover?
Who robbed the twilight of its rose And gave it to the lonely willow? Who stole the starlight from the skies And hid it in the lily’s chalice?
Who did this wonder, and for why? Who knows the secret of this magic? Who paints the canvas of the night With such a tender beauty?
Who is the artist, and the art? Who is the giver, and the given? Who is the master of the heart That makes this earth a heaven?
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand — How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep — while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
DREAMS
by langston hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.