I have brought my textile sculptures to many places. Into the garden, the forest, on a boat to the park and the beach. We have traveled across the globe and back, together. I carry them in my arms, give them chairs instead of the floor, let them ride in the seat instead of the trunk. I protect my sculptures against their enemies: the dirt on the floor, the unavoidable rain showers. They are important. But now it's time for one of them to be on it's own for a while.

I want to bring my sculpture to the mountain. It will be red, the colour for visibility in the mountains, used for marking a trail through the landscape. I will walk up from the city carrying it in my arms, before finally leaving it at the gallery space – to ponder it's existence, away from my control as its maker.

What will happen as the inevitable rain comes down? Will the sculpture be miserable? Does it even care that it is outside? Will it remember the time spent on top of a mountain?

I don't know what will happen exactly. It will be out of my control. I only know it will never be a forever. In the end it will only be a memory.