Dominika Jenčová
Words can hurt. Words can heal. Some disappear as soon as they are spoken; others remain, quietly shaping the way we love, trust and remember.
Embroidery enters the work as a technique passed down through the women in my family, taught to me by my grandmother as a child. It is slow and intimate. A sentence spoken in seconds takes hours to stitch. In that slowness, there is space to return to the words and to sit with the emotions they bring to the surface.
The work becomes an act of remembering — revisiting what was, experiencing what remains, and becoming aware of where I stand now. Through stitching, I move through my own memories and different experiences of love.
Everyday acts of care shared between family and friends exist alongside the complexities of romantic intimacy. Ordinary words carry tenderness and closeness; others hold memories of fear, pain and violence.
At times, these experiences exist on the same canvas, layered over one another. The white embroidery is quieter. You have to come closer to see it. It does not scream, but remains beneath the surface — just as some experiences stay hidden while continuing to shape us.