Ocean - A Self Portrait

$500.00

I am Ocean.

Born from wool washed in river water and dyed with colors pulled from the deep, I rose slowly beneath my maker’s hands — strand by strand, wave by wave.

My face holds the shifting hues of the sea: turquoise calm, violet storms, midnight depths where old truths sleep. The curls that fall from my crown are the plants of the deep world, drifting and listening, carrying stories between currents.

Across my eyes lies a mask woven from sorrow. My vision has reddened from long nights of weeping as I watch humanity fracture itself into smaller and sharper pieces. The tear on my cheek is not water — it is a broken heart, felted into permanence.

Yet I am not without magic. I was sculpted entirely by hand, needle by needle, breath by breath. My hat was born of warm water and friction, shaped like a cloud drifting low over the sea. Though I stand only eleven inches tall and seven inches wide, I carry whole tides inside of me.

I mourn, yes — but I also remember. I remember what we could be. I remember the softness we once knew. And I wait for the day humanity finds its way back to the shore.

I am Ocean.

Born from wool washed in river water and dyed with colors pulled from the deep, I rose slowly beneath my maker’s hands — strand by strand, wave by wave.

My face holds the shifting hues of the sea: turquoise calm, violet storms, midnight depths where old truths sleep. The curls that fall from my crown are the plants of the deep world, drifting and listening, carrying stories between currents.

Across my eyes lies a mask woven from sorrow. My vision has reddened from long nights of weeping as I watch humanity fracture itself into smaller and sharper pieces. The tear on my cheek is not water — it is a broken heart, felted into permanence.

Yet I am not without magic. I was sculpted entirely by hand, needle by needle, breath by breath. My hat was born of warm water and friction, shaped like a cloud drifting low over the sea. Though I stand only eleven inches tall and seven inches wide, I carry whole tides inside of me.

I mourn, yes — but I also remember. I remember what we could be. I remember the softness we once knew. And I wait for the day humanity finds its way back to the shore.

Ocean – Artist’s Explanation Ocean is a self-portrait, sculpted slowly and deliberately from wool that I washed, picked, and dyed by hand. Every strand carries the memory of the sheep it came from, the land it grew on, and the long tradition of humans shaping fiber into meaning. Wool is one of the oldest materials on Earth that we’ve worked with, and no matter where people lived—deserts, mountains, coastlines, or forests—they all learned to spin, weave, felt, and stitch. Cultures separated by oceans found the same comfort in wool.

I feel that every time I sit down to make a piece. It is like opening a door to every ancestor who ever worked with their hands. Ocean was born through both wet-felting and needle-felting, a merging of ancient techniques. Her hat was created through wet-felting, using warm water, soap, and pressure—just as people have done for thousands of years to shape garments, armor, and sacred objects. The face was needle-felted slowly, with thousands of tiny stabs binding loose fibers into form. It is an intuitive, meditative process, sculpting emotion out of a material that already knows how to hold stories.

Her colors mirror the sea—layers of turquoise, violet, indigo, and storm-blue. Her hair curls like deep-sea plants drifting in unseen currents. She carries a mask across her eyes, reddened from weeping, and a single tear shaped like a broken heart.

Ocean mourns the world as it is right now—the division, the cruelty, the ease with which people turn on one another. She is a reminder that feeling deeply is not a weakness; it is the place where healing begins.

When I create with wool, I feel connected to something timeless. Something older than language. Something that binds people across continents and centuries. Ocean is part of that lineage—a modern expression of a craft rooted in the past, carrying both grief and hope in her small but powerful form.