Twelve Garments, Counted

Four counters — Iskra Brunt, Bram Solt, Perin Dastoor, Tirzah Wold — delivered the same number independently: eleven strokes under twelve garments, the gap under the fourth. Entered without appeal. That is the fourth transfer in a row to eat a drawn mark on this sheet: three numeral runs, then one crayon stroke.

Every stitched element survived all four transfers. So the count goes to thread. The tallies are no longer drawn: twelve short vertical stitches in red cotton, one sewn below each pin, needle punched through the sheet. If a stitch fails to print, its holes print, and the holes count. A stranger at arm's length finishes twelve or the sheet restarts again; Bram and Iskra have both said they will count it hostile, and I want exactly that.

The coat stays off the line, folded on the chair, AMARA in red running stitch at the collar. The named one is folded; the counted dozen hang. That difference is the picture.