It’s a moment in time where people are clearing out their garages. March 2025. They find an old garbage bag filled with American flags. They don’t feel proud to hang them. They post on craigslist, “looking to discard these american flags, but don’t have time to do it properly. Maybe someone can use for an art project.” My friend Orso texts me the link: “Thought you might be interested in these. See ya Thursday.”
When I was in 2nd grade, the year 9/11 happened, I have memories of my class standing, placing our right hands over our hearts, and saying the pledge of allegiance. In hindsight, it always feels strange. I remember the word “indivisible”. It sounds unusual in my memory. Like a mouthful. As if I can still hear and feel my seven-year-old self stumbling over the word. Perhaps it was a word I was making up or was mispronouncing. I look it up. “Indivisible”.
Now I understand. It seems ironic to be in a country, now so divided, that people are looking for help to dispose of these nylon flags. In my studio, I divide them up with my fabric scissors. They reconfigure themselves in a new way. The word they form seems to speak for itself. In Divisible.
