The title My Love Hath/Kissed In Fixing comes from a poem in my great-great-grandmother's diary. A material object from a time that’s not mine, but an object I've inherited, and committed myself to reckoning with. This diary contains preserved flowers, which had been exchanged as gifts between white women from slave owning families during the Civil War. She stitched each flower painstakingly in 1861. An old diary from the Civil War, unburied, has pressed me between a past and now.  

quiet/violence/record/keeping/death/disappeared/shapes/fantasy/denial/pain/taking

I have been collecting flowers and seeds as a way to think about what gets passed on, shared histories, and familial lines. 

Some flowers, like buttercups, keep their color when dried—marking  time and signaling seasons. Their petals reflect light intensely, like a mirror. Hold a buttercup under someone's chin, if yellow is reflected on their skin, they're innocent, the butter didn't melt in their mouth. If no yellow, they're guilty of stealing because the butter melted, and they swallowed it.

mirror/cream/innocence/myth/a rigged test/color/judgment/theft