Observing the same square of sky outside my studio window, every four hours, for three days. I experiment with the futility of trying to hold a moment still. Painstakingly I fix the hours of the passing days into these little squares, and I join them. Beyond the grid is the tighter weave of the sailcloth — it has its own logic of squares, of meeting places. Lifted up to the window, the cloth’s translucency lets the light in. Bare veils of color. Traditionally, quiltmaking is a feminine pastime. How have I let the time pass?