When I was little, this quilt hung in the National Art Gallery.
I loved it. It was in the hallway just by the entrance. All the concrete in the world couldn’t distract from its colours and shapes.
I don’t know why I loved it. I was too young to understand any of the implications.
Canadian Art did an article on Joyce Wieland this month. I finally have a picture of the quilt. I still love it, even though I don’t live my life that way.
Edit: my sister would like to confirm, for all the world that I – without doubt – do not live my life that way… just in case you had any reason to doubt me.