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I was a child far too mature for my years; I had unfailing intuition and imagined, supernatural powers. A quick analysis of the arrangement of objects on the dining table at home was an invaluable source of knowledge for me. The traces left on the white tablecloth would tell me what had happened whilst I was away from my family home. This awareness was painful, yet at the same time it brought me comfort. In reality, it could change nothing.

I sewed petticoats from old family tablecloths – a kind of personal undergarment, invisible to others, in close contact with the body – and covered the table with them. They reflect a desire to be close, to exercise control, to take responsibility. The petticoats are sewn to fit a child’s height. Today, I no longer fit into them.