Fíodóireacht Bheirte / A Weaving of Two is a shared offering by Saoirse and Sarah Weiss — a quiet study of belonging, ritual, and care. Saoirse’s photographs trace tenderness and protection on the dance floor, while Sarah’s images turn inward toward home, family, and the small sacredness of daily life. Together, their work forms a living weave between chosen family and blood family — between the places we gather and the places we rest.
Documentation of Rumination a collaboration of artists. It was an incredible experience working with @n8me@mrblaq@_tekknikk@kiiiiiiiiiiisu@xpertempath@ryote_@lomismo.mpls and @thetruthaboutjane I’m so honored to have shared space with you all! Thank you to everyone who was able to come to the show and everyone who helped promote it. We had a great turn out I wish the show could have stayed up longer. Hopefully I will be able to show this work again in the future.
Special thanks to @springboardarts and @metroregionalartscouncil for helping make this event possible.
First few photos, many more to come.
Before It Knows Itself
Light through cut paper.
Edges glowing.
Breath held without knowing why.
Close.
Shoulders almost touching.
A quiet hum between.
Stillness before it breaks.
A lean.
Eyes forward.
Something gathering.
Foot lifted.
A wobble...
then held.
And then...
gone.
Feet hitting ground.
Fast.
Uneven.
Air opening.
Laughter spills out.
Too big to keep in.
Turn.
Run back.
Run again.
No beginning.
No end.
Hands on warm metal.
Pull.
Push.
Up without asking.
At the top...
everything slows.
A small body
holding space for a second.
Then it slips.
Motion again.
Breath louder now.
Cheeks warm.
Grass brushing skin.
Closer.
Closer.
Almost...
gone again.
Time stretches thin.
Just movement.
Just sound.
And then...
it softens.
Walking.
Side by side.
Not needing to say it.
The feeling stays.
Low.
Steady.
Like it never needed a place to land.
Sometimes it's not always perfectly clear where we are going but I am happy to follow them into the light. Happy Transvisablity day. Let's shed some light on those who are not always given the easiest path. Doing what feels true to yourself is always the path I want to follow. I hope Norah will always feel safe to do that too. I'm so proud of @xpertempath for choosing to find yourself and taking the path that isn't always easy.
Day in the life.
I wonder sometimes...
when she’s older,
when she looks back at these…
what will she see?
Will she feel held?
Or exposed?
Will she understand why I shared these moments
before she could choose for herself?
I don’t know.
I think about that more than I say.
And then I turn it around...
if I were her…
if my mom left behind pieces of her inner world
while she was learning how to be a mother,
a person,
growing in real time…
I think I would’ve loved that.
To know what she was thinking.
What she was afraid of.
What she noticed.
Because this isn’t just me making her.
She’s making me, too.
It feels like a star being born.
And everything close to it shifts.
Orbits change.
Gravity takes hold.
Some drift closer.
Some further away.
You feel it, even if you don’t have language for it.
And then there’s the question of right and wrong.
Of morality.
But that feels like something we made.
Physics doesn’t ask permission.
It just… moves.
Maybe this is just how my brain works.
Or how it learned to.
Noticing patterns.
Holding onto moments.
Trying to understand where I end
and everything else begins.
We have our own little orbit.
West 7th.
The thrift store she’s been going to since she was tiny.
The women there watching her grow up alongside me.
She wanders the racks like she knows them better than I do.
Always picking something up,
then letting it go for the next thing.
Nothing really held onto for long.
Then the park on Cathedral Hill.
Today, we pulled up, and she gasped...
“park!”
Like it was the first time,
even though it never is.
She could swing forever.
Run the same path again and again
like it’s brand new each time.
She climbed today.
Wanted to do it all on her own...
but let me help, just a little.
And I felt that shift.
That quiet, almost invisible line
between needing me
and choosing me.
I don’t know how all of this will land one day.
I don’t know what she’ll think of me
for sharing it.
But I know this...
this is real.
And I want her to have something
that shows her
what it felt like
to be here with her
while everything was still unfolding.
There are days where life doesn’t wait for you to process it.
It just… keeps moving.
July 15th, 2023. We woke up knowing Norah was coming.
At the same time, we realized Lego wasn’t okay.
Before I could even settle into what that meant, I was on the phone... friends, family, the emergency vet, trying to hold two realities at once.
One life arriving. One life leaving.
I remember sitting with him. On my lap. Feeling his body, knowing what was coming, not wanting to rush it.
And then the call came.
“It’s time.”
We ran.
From one room where something was ending to another where something was beginning.
I don’t think there’s language for that kind of whiplash. To hold death in your body and then hear your child take her first breath.
Months later, we brought home two kittens.
Not as replacements. That’s not how it works.
More like… continuation. Echoes.
And still, the reminders live everywhere.
In the places he used to sit. In the way light hits the couch. In the way another cat curls up in the same spot without knowing why it feels familiar.
Sarah carries it. I carry it.
Probably differently. Probably the same.
That’s the thing about love.
It doesn’t end when something does.
It just… changes form. Moves through different bodies. Different moments.
Some days it looks like grief. Some days it looks like a child laughing. Some days it’s both, at the exact same time.
There are people who curate walls.
And there are people who curate lives.
George is both.
He is the reason this show has a physical body. The reason the weave has somewhere to land. The one who said, quietly but firmly, yes, this belongs here.
I met George long before Norah. Long before my transition. Back when Sarah was just beginning to build a relationship with him as an artist. I remember meeting him at a yard sale he was hosting. Folding tables. Small objects. Art books. It felt casual at the time. It wasn’t.
He has been a witness.
To Sarah’s growth. To my becoming. To Norah’s first winter. To the expansion of our family from something theoretical into something breathing and loud and real.
The first image here... I took of George on film in this very gallery, the winter Norah first knew cold air. He stands the way he always does. Steady. Observant. A little amused. Holding more history than he lets on.
The second image... he took on his Leica. A camera he received decades ago as payment from another artist. 1970s, I think (correction, 1990s). That detail matters. Art paying art. Work circulating between hands. Tools passed forward instead of sold off.
That Leica has seen decades. And now it has seen us.
George didn’t just offer us wall space. He understood that this wasn’t only about music or photography. It was about family. About continuity. About witnessing change without flinching.
He has watched us move through grief, through transition, through parenthood, through community building.
And he decided that story deserved room.
Curators shape what survives. They decide what gets remembered.
George chose to remember us in real time.
That’s not neutral. That’s care.
This show exists because someone with history looked at our messy, loud, braided lives and said...
Yes. Tell it.
Lauryn.
We first connected after a Communion night at a mutual friend’s place, and what stayed with me wasn’t the setting... it was her steadiness. From the beginning, there was this quiet sincerity about her. The kind of person who makes you feel actually seen when she looks at you. No performance. No angle. Just presence.
We’d keep crossing paths after that... dance floors, gatherings, those in-between conversations that somehow always felt grounding. Lauryn carries herself with a tender kind of strength. She listens deeply. When she checks in, it’s real. When she commits to something, she means it.
That devotion shows up in her art. She’s an incredible producer and DJ... not flashy for the sake of it, but intentional. Her sets breathe. They unfold with care. You can feel her paying attention to the room, shaping energy instead of overpowering it. There’s emotional intelligence in the way she builds sound. Patience. Precision.
And when our city has been shaken by ICE activity and fear, Lauryn hasn’t hesitated. She’s been helping build infrastructure, lending her voice, organizing, mobilizing. She shows up without ego. Protects without needing praise. Steps forward when things feel unstable.
If we’re staying in Tolkien language... she carries a bit of Galadriel. Not in some distant, untouchable way, but in that luminous steadiness. The kind of presence that feels ancient and calm in the middle of chaos. A light that doesn’t shout... it simply remains.
Lauryn will be at the opening, working alongside Erin and others to collect donations for Minnesotans affected by ICE and helping connect people to ways they can support our city. Not just attending. Working. Guarding. Holding.
She brings light. And she stays.
