Tracy's work is strongly informed by her childhood memories and experiences. Her father served many prison sentences and in her work, she express how his confinement affected her family as well as notions of lost childhood.
Tracy also focus some of her work on her beloved grandmother’s battle with Alzheimer’s. She was a very strong woman who suffered much adversity in her life. She has always been a constant inspiration to Tracy in many different ways and she owes a lot of her values to her. Within this work, Tracy explore ideas of fading memories and the loss of the essence of a person to the devastating illness.
She uses vintage textiles including handkerchiefs, napkins, baby clothing and doilies to print and stitch onto. Words, as well as images of personal objects from her past, feature strongly in her work.
Since being on lockdown she has begun to make her work again after a couple of years of abstinence. This has helped her with her own mental health and has found it very satisfying and therapeutic.
Poems printed on bibs
'I found it quite difficult to re-type these poems for this show. Even though I have used them in my work, I have avoided really reading them. They bring up a lot of emotions and make me remember how much hurt I was feeling when I wrote them. I was only 20, and was really trying to make sense of my childhood.'
So pure, naïve. Damage inflicted at such a crucial point,
Damaged goods, broken lives.
Memory blocks aid self-preservation,
Occasional flickers of a distant time,
Tentative probing, sifting through fragile fragments of a buried existence.
Painful, pointless perhaps.
Drenched in sorrow,
Laden with unjustified guilt.
Self-persecution seems the only answer.
Heavy heart, sinking.
So weak, so fragile.
Whole inner self succumbing to the pain.
Allowing myself to be enveloped, engulfed.
It’s safer this way, only myself to torture.
Strength ebbs away,
Time lapses unnoticed.
Denying real thought, ignoring reality.
We lived through difficult times, all of us.
Impossible for us to emerge unscathed, any of us.
First and foremost is Honor, my mother.
Recovered with no obvious scars, but life can make you hard.
In order of age; next comes Tracy, me.
The scars are more apparent here, or so I’m told.
Next is Kelly, my younger sister.
More recent wounds but is healing well.
Neil follows Kelly, my brother. Deeper hurts,
not from experience, from not experiencing.
What about Roy, my other parent? Disturbed and violent from the start.
What chance did we ever have?