When I first saw these ceramic sculptures, I thought they were made of fabric. The surface held the imprint of woven linen so convincingly that my eyes expected softness. The edges seemed to drape almost effortlessly, as though the clay had paused in the middle of folding. It wasn't until I moved closer that I realized what I was looking at. Cloth had become ceramic, carrying with it the memory of its original form.

I discovered these pieces during my early years in New York. A friend introduced me to Argie Bucot, another Filipino artist who had made the city his home. His small studio and boutique sat in the Meatpacking District long before luxury boutiques and hotels transformed the neighborhood. Back then, it was still rough around the edges warehouses, cobblestone streets, and artists quietly making things by hand.

I remember how unexpected his work felt in that setting. Outside, the neighborhood carried a certain grit and rawness. Inside, these quiet white sculptures seemed almost weightless. There was a delicacy to them that never felt fragile. Instead, they carried a quiet confidence, shaped through patience, discipline, and the unseen strength that comes from the process itself.

Perhaps that's why they stayed with me. Looking back, I realize I wasn't only collecting objects. I was collecting moments of discovery—meeting artists from different parts of the world, seeing how each person translated their history into the language of making. As someone who had also come to New York from the Philippines, those encounters made the city feel smaller, yet somehow more expansive at the same time.

These sculptures no longer sit in my home, but I've never considered letting them go. When I unwrap them today, I still find myself running my hand across the surface, tracing the woven texture left behind in the clay. Even after years, the ceramic remembers the softness of the fabric that shaped it. Maybe that's what I carry with me, too.