Stitches

Alex Massaux

Raised in New York City and now based in Gent, Alex Massaux is a chronically ill queer artist and licensed art therapist who seeks to circumvent conventional barriers to mental wellness through sensory, perceptual, and symbolic modes of expression. In childhood, Alex attended programs at SVA, FIT, Cooper Union, and Parsons School of Design to develop technical proficiency. However, their artist identity truly emerged once they positioned the creative process as a catalyst for healing and began translating their complex emotions tangibly. Their work as art therapists has explored artmaking’s unique ability to foster greater self-efficacy and autonomy in institutionalized clients, both at the psychiatric and carceral levels. Now, their personal artmaking practice has become enmeshed with their clinical lens, wedding existentialism, spirituality, and engaging the subconscious as they navigate the human experience; frequently depicting queer utopia, psychological trauma, and coping with chronic, progressive illnesses.

Stitches

Essential thread embroiders me to the universal fabric 

You can find me at the inseam 

Licking frayed edges anew
For my string is not so vibrant,
or clean,
or smooth
It is tangled,
and shredded, and hangs loose over skipped stitches

My palms become callused, then exfoliated,
Rubbed smooth, then rubbed raw again
as I fold coarse desperate knots to preserve its longevity

I do not know why my string is so
Maybe the needle was dull, or bent, or worn out when it pierced me through
Maybe it is my fault for not tending to the string in the first place
Nevertheless, my sense of time is dissolving
With burning cells and sagging shoulders, 

I drag this unraveling rope with me
Searching for some reprieve as it gnaws into granular flesh 

But people do not like to look at the ugly
Averted eyes shower the corners of sterile rooms while my thread
lays bare,
creviced,
splayed open,
rotting in the center.
And I am lecturing 

that with strong discipline it can be pulled taught again, 

that only moments away, it can be woven into something better
that lasts and lasts and lasts 

guaranteed not to mildew, rust, or run
A short-lived consensus
Really, a moral imperative to preserve the beauty of our quilt

So, doubtfully, I look down at the grit 

and soot
and mess
roughly braided into my splitting fibers

My tender muscles cannot carry on what uncertain ground I might
finally find relief
And a quiet call to rip off the seam rattles inside