Stretch: An Art Quilt About Body, Comfort, and Discomfort

Do my stretch marks fuck with you?

That’s the question that started Stretch—my first real art-quilt, stitched from nearly 300 hours of raw, vulnerable work. What began as a way to enter the 2025 Pantone Challenge turned into a full-body confrontation with the culture that taught me to starve and the skin that learned to hold me anyway.

The Body That Wasn’t Home

I developed an eating disorder when I was eleven.
I learned early that “skinny” earned praise, and I chased it until I disappeared.
ANTM was my scripture; ribs were my proof of holiness.
Doctors warned me about infertility, but I decided I didn’t want kids—because wanting them meant facing what my body couldn’t do.

Years later, therapy and a best friend helped me start coming home to myself.
Then I carried a child. I stretched.
And in that stretching, I found everything diet culture told me to fear—weight, softness, visible marks—became proof of life.

The Making of Stretch

Pantone calls Mocha Mousse “comfortable, indulgent, and luxurious.”
So, naturally, I asked: what if comfort is uncomfortable?

I photographed my own body, translated it into a poly foundation-paper-pieced design, and appliquéd my actual stretch marks in pink and purple thread. I quilted vertical one-inch lines—my “fuck you” to diet culture’s obsession with inches. I left loose threads on purpose; perfectionism doesn’t live here anymore.

My body and head are finally living in the same house.
This quilt is that house.

Behind the Scenes

If you saw me making this, you didn’t.
Not even my closest friends got a sneak peek. I was scared to show something so raw.
Eventually, I reached out for help—thank you, Kaia and Beth—and learned that vulnerability and collaboration can coexist with creative control.

Technically speaking, I’m still a lil baby in the art-quilt world 🤪. EQ8 was both my playground and my limitation. I divided my body photo into blocks, fought through mismatched seams, and reminded myself that learning is part of the art. The Ph.D. researcher in me knows: improvement takes iteration, not perfection.

Coming Home

I can laugh now at my flat mom butt and my visible underwear lines (zero percent chance I’m wearing a thong again—who decided those were a thing?!).
I can eat a Costco cookie and ice cream without a single intrusive thought.
I can look at my stretch marks—my pink and purple road map—and feel love, not shame.

I am sad for wandering Sarah, the one who lived outside her body for years.
But I’m thankful for this version—housed, healing, and whole.

The Work and the Question

Stretch is my celebration and rebellion.
It honors the women who raised me, the son who stretched me, and the body that still carries me. It asks viewers—and maybe you—why the strong, stretching female body still makes people uncomfortable.

I am comfortable here, in my home.
But tell me… do my stretch marks still fuck with you?

Artist Statement

“Stretch”

Part 1:

Do my stretch marks fuck with you?

I started my eating disorder when I was 11 years old.

I used to consume ANTM like it was gospel.

I loved it when strangers called me skinny.

“You could be a model.”

I loved the dumb poem a classmate made up to make fun of me for being skinny.

“Why is Sarah’s chest as flat as her back?”

I may not have boobs, but I’m skinny as fuck.

I had beautiful, long, and lean legs.

Everyone loved them.

My sister gave me a nickname, “Stretch,” that I clung to like glue.

If I could keep stretching out, keep getting leaner, I could reach it.

It didn’t have a definition; I just knew I could get there if I were skinny enough.

I first saw stretch marks on my mother getting out of the shower.

“Why are there purple lines on your legs and belly?”

“These stretch marks came when I housed five babies.”

This didn’t bother me; I didn’t feel it.

This was my mother.

“Our mothers are our first homes.”

How thankful I was to have my mother and reside with her.

But where did I reside after?

I lied to my parents about which meals I ate.

I threw away my packed lunches.

I was happy to juggle extra sports, because extra meant “more burning.”

I started to wake up in the middle of the night, shaking, because I was starving.

Shopping for jeans was hard because every pair I tried on had extra fabric around the hips.

“But Mom, the hip thing...”

We put every pair back.

My male pediatrician asked me to lift my shirt and look in the mirror.

“But what do you see?”

“Lumps. Lumps that shouldn’t be there.”

I was referring to my ribs.

From then on, I became obsessed with my ribs.

If I could lift my shirt and look in the mirror, still see my lumps, I was still good.

Pure.

Would I ever be pure?

145 was my magic number; 5’11’’.

Inspired by a BMI chart at a rest stop.

I never had many periods because I was skinny as fuck.

My OBGYN told me it would be hard to get pregnant.

Well, if “I don’t want kids,” I won’t feel it.

I won’t get to stretch.

Part 2:

Therapy and a best friend started to make me feel more whole.

I saw myself gaining weight.

And it wasn’t painful.

I stopped seeing my body walk around aimlessly.

Without a head.

I started to decorate my body and my arm with images that made me happy.

This art helped me carry my head a little higher.

But the moment I came home

Was the moment I

Housed my son.

I fell in love with every part of my body.

Every stretch mark that came.

I got to stretch.

But “I bought this nice cream for you to prevent stretch marks.”

What the fuck?

My son’s house.

This is my home.

It can house and build a human while also carrying and housing me.

My body is a blueprint of my father’s boyish shape.

And my spirit is ready to carry on, like my mother.

But in this culture, carrying on and stretching

Is a sin.

Stretching and growing—my proudest work.

But I am no longer skinny as fuck.

“She’s gained weight.”

Yeah.

Well, I hope so.

“Fat,” and “skinny” used to be frequent adjectives out of my mouth.

But not anymore.

My body and head are finally living in the same house.

But where was I before?

Where was my home?

Where is your home?

If you’re not in your home, where are you?

These are questions for wandering Sarah.

And maybe for wandering you.

Do you feel the warmth and coziness of your only home?

Or are you wandering in dark?

Abysmal hell.

Reaching for it?

We are all going to die.

We will be gone.

But where do we live until then?

My house tells many stories.

But I am sad for my wandering years.

The house I love now,

Was built brittle.

Now my bones break when I try to run.

My favorite way to move and celebrate this house.

But this house still carries on.

I think I’m “overweight” now; I’m not sure.

I haven’t looked it up or asked because who gives a fuck?

AND I’ve never felt better.

It has never been easier to laugh at my nonexistent ass.

It has never been easier to squeeze and hug the largest part of my body.

My belly.

What a wonderful place!

Blessed with stretching.

Blessed with housing!

I am comfortable with this place.

Part 3:

antone describes Mocha Mousse as comfortable, indulgent, and luxurious.

But if we’re not feeling comfort...

We must be feeling discomfort.

This piece may be discomforting to the current wanderers.

It’s intended to be.

I took a picture of my body; created a poly FPP design of it.

My obsession with my ribs kept me in the abysmal black.

I created drippy, stretchy, FPP letters.

My appliqued stretch marks, which are depicted from my actual body, may look unappealing.

But why?

Why does the strong and stretching female body gross out humanity?

My friend long armed my top and backing in place…

I don’t hate myself?

The stretch marks and hand quilting are both pink and purple.

Because this is a reality.

And really, I love pink and hate purple.

Two things can be true at once.

I used white thread on my body.

Because would I ever be pure?

I have some vertical 1-inch hand quilting.

Mainly as a fuck you to diet culture.

“Inches” this, “Inches” that.

My tattooed arm was for fun, but it looks a little like feathers, doesn’t it?

The art that helps me hold my head higher, flying a little higher.

The colors are inspired by my kid-sized favorite knit pair of floral 70’s pants.

I used yellow because when I am at my darkest,

I am always trying to channel a yellow aura.

My bright happy flowers in my soul,

That can bloom when I’m in need.

I have embroidered phrases and memories that have joined me on my journey back home.

This was mainly for healing.

I didn’t bury all of my threads.

I like the poofy texture on my quilt,

And

Fuck that shit.

My legs are intentionally cut off.

Is my body still beautiful without its most striking feature?

My head is cut off, too.

I used to roam.

My background is Mocha Mousse.

My body and home are ready to catch me in this comfort.

What a luxury. Indulgent, really.

And the backing is an intentional haunt.

Are you sliding out of your body and becoming a ghost?

If you’re not in your home, where are you?

Do you have no home?

So, do my stretch marks fuck with you?

Are you feeling it yet?

PS: I did not FPP my ass on the back because this quilt would have been too powerful after that.

#pantonequiltchallenge2025