I didn’t go looking for this. Someone knew I made art and left a sewing machine on my porch. It arrived already broken, already seized. Heavy, ancient, and not mine to fix. It just showed up and became my problem. I’ll admit, I love problems like this.

These old machines are beautiful: long lines, sexy curves, built to last longer than the people who used them. I wanted glamour shots. What I got instead was something weirder. Like a stranger’s granny wandering in the desert with busted knitting needles convinced she was about to mend things I didn’t even know were broken yet. I knew I had to let her explore.

I started hiking places with the machine. The oddly specific cocktail of metal and grease and sweat and dust started to linger in my clothing. Sometimes we’d get looks. Sometimes I’d offer a weak explanation. But it didn’t matter once I unfurled her increasingly stained cloth and let her pretend in the desert.

See, there’s a Sisyphean aspect to repair. Communities will always need you as sure as your socks wear thin. There’s a joy in being needed. But there’s also exhaustion in trying to fix an infinity of problems with broken tools. Are we just going through the motions? Is there some effectiveness in that? And what happens when we’re programmed to keep trying and there’s nothing we can do?

Mend documents some of my outings with this machine. I’ve chosen times that feel important even though, like her, I may not quite remember why. My journey with this machine is ongoing, with new images working their way into the collection frequently.