I grew up nostalgic for a country I’d never seen, fiercely committed to learning a language I was sure no one really spoke, longing for the first cousin’s I hadn’t yet met. It was a fight for survival of an entire nation’s identity. While I wasn’t always comfortable with the political nature of that fight, I took great comfort in being part of a community where our parents all had the same English language idiosyncrasies: odd syntax, odd aversions to the “th” sound, odd formality when addressing non-Latvians. Add in the familiarity of friends’ last names that, like my own, seemed to have too many consonants and not nearly enough vowels, and my odd puzzle piece finally seemed to fit. I am sure my love for all things flavored with dill can be traced right back to the Latvian church ladies’ auxiliary kitchen. Freshly baked dark rye bread, slathered in salted butter is the best form of communion I know, and is still my most direct portal to internal conversation with my now deceased mother. I embraced the hyphenated community and, in turn, it has kept its loving arms around me for well over half a century.

How strange it seems that now, thirty years after the Soviet Union collapsed and Latvia regained independence, the lessons of my childhood are coming back. With war raging in Ukraine and refugees fleeing to the western borders, I can’t help but think of what my parents went through in the 1940’s. The conflict in Gaza admittedly feels more foreign, distant if you will, but the human suffering is sitting right next to me. So I am drawing on lessons learned in the Latvian American community, not the political aspect, but the idea of comfort. Rather than hunkering down with my family like I did during the worst part of the COVID-19 pandemic, I find that my family and I are all wanting to spread our arms wide, to embrace those that have no place to fit in. Instead of receiving the kindness of others we feel positioned to give it.

Collective Comfort is a new installation that came into being as a reaction to my unease with the social, emotional, and physical distance endured since the shut-down in 2020. Spending so much time at home, I was able to sort some of the remnants of my mother’s knitting basket, using her unfinished projects to create the first pom-poms and the foundation of this piece. Languid, organic forms are offered for interaction, including gentle touch and respectful hugs. Soft colors transition into more bold hues, creating a sense of growth and implying hope. Creating this piece has given me great joy and sense of purpose. I hope it brings those that interact with it a modicum of comfort, a moment of peace.