Conceptual Materials Social Practice Artist
“Talismanic Reverence” explores intention as tangible power, blending rituals and symbolism. Crafted from wood, leather, yarn and found materials, holds energy for empowerment. Bathed in moonlight and infused with incense, these objects ground spiritual intention, inviting prosperity and blessings.
“We are not invisible because the world does not see us. We become invisible when we cannot see ourselves.”
—Ben Okri, The Famished Road
This line sticks with me. It speaks to the quiet power of ritual, of reflection, of seeing ourselves clearly—even when the world doesn’t.
That’s what the Rootstick Tide Wands are for.
They are more than found objects bound in yarn and memory. These wands are power objects—handmade instruments for those standing at the threshold between what was and what will be. Each one is crafted intuitively, using driftwood, discarded utensils, feathers, selenite, bones, and beach-swept beads. Materials that have already crossed boundaries, survived the elements, and returned ready to be transformed.
I began making them after moon-charging a collection of selenite under the Strawberry Moon. The energy was palpable. I didn’t plan it. I just knew: now is the time. The wands came together quickly, as if they’d been waiting.
They’re meant to be used. For clearing space. For holding intention. For witnessing grief. For marking the sacred. For tethering ourselves when we feel unmoored.
Each wand is a guide for liminal rites—the inner ceremonies we perform when words fail, when the world shifts, when the soul needs a signal fire. In my hands, they’ve become companions. In yours, they may become portals.
If you’re moving through a threshold—call in what you need. Let the wand speak. Let it guide you home to yourself.
This is dope! I kind wish I had made it
Have you seen this before?
There’s something deeply satisfying about revealing what’s hidden underneath. The textures, the ghost marks, the traces of past gestures—they all come forward in unexpected ways. It’s like the surface tells its own story once you lift the top layer away.
Inspired by the lush vegetation found on my rainforest property, I wove single-use bottle caps into vines and flowers to reflects the vibrant colors and intricate patterns of vines, orchids, Heliconias, and Birds of Paradise that surround me.
Now on display at Fiberart International 2025 through August 30 2025 at Brew House Arts; 711 S 21st Pittsburgh, PA.
The Rootstick Tide Wands began under the luminous gaze of the Strawberry Moon. That night, I placed my selenite out to charge under the moonlight. By morning, I felt an undeniable pull—like the materials themselves were asking to be gathered. Driftwood and discarded spatulas. Feathers, coral, bones. Beads and buttons waiting to be strung. I listened. I followed the current. And I began to make.
These wands are not ornamental. They are ritual tools—conduits for renewal, rebirth, and release. Each one is wrapped with intention and woven from the thresholds between land and sea, spirit and body, memory and motion.
Reading The Way of the Eight Winds by Nigel Pennick helped me name what I was already feeling: that each wand aligns with directional energies. North for stillness. East for new breath. South for fire and transformation. West for the tides we release into. These elemental currents are embedded in every fiber, shell, and knot.
The tarot’s Eight of Wands captures the same urgency I felt while making them—swift movement, decisive action, a rush of spiritual momentum. These are wands for those standing at a threshold. For those who know it’s time to let go, call something in, or begin again.
Each wand holds charged selenite and moonlight. Each wand is a spell. A signal. A tether to the unseen forces moving us forward.
If you feel called, trust the pull. The wind doesn’t wait.
Rhapsody Wrapped in Blues began with a question from a child.
During my January residency with the Miami Children’s Museum, one young visitor asked if we could use pipe cleaners on the cart. That moment of curiosity stayed with me. There was something so tender in the request—something playful, intuitive, and wise. It cracked open a new way of thinking about material, and I began wrapping the child-sized shopping cart with pipe cleaners soon after.
The color palette, however, was already whispering to me—shaped by the books I’d been reading, each a meditation on memory, grief, and the enduring presence of Black life.
Imani Perry’s Black in Blues reminded me that blue is more than a color; it’s a carrier of ancestral sorrow and sonic resistance. In Christina Sharpe’s In the Wake, I found language for the feeling of constantly living with the residue of catastrophe—of mourning that doesn’t end. That wake lives in the soft textures of the faux fur, the tangle of pipe cleaners, the miles of ribbon.
Saidiya Hartman’s Lose Your Mother haunted my hands as I wrapped each bar of the cart. I imagined the women she walked with, the ruptures she named. Judith Carney’s In the Shadow of Slavery reminded me of the sacred knowledge carried through seeds and roots. These readings weren’t just research—they were spirit guides.
I also carried the wisdom of Braiding Sweetgrass—Robin Wall Kimmerer’s call for reciprocal relationship with the natural world—and Tiya Miles’ All That She Carried, which taught me how an object can become a vessel for remembrance when language fails.
Together, these stories, these materials, and that one child’s question converged.
Rhapsody Wrapped in Blues is a power object disguised in softness. A rolling vessel. A visual blues ballad made from pipe cleaners, pom poms, faux fur, and 12 yards of ribbon. It holds the weight of what we carry—from the microaggressions we’re taught to swallow, to the ancestral griefs that linger in our DNA.
It’s playful. It’s painful. It’s both.
Because sometimes healing begins when we let a child’s question guide us toward our own.
What’s Now & What’s Next with Theda Sandiford
June 20 – August 30, 2025
Brew House Arts, Pittsburgh, PA
Work on view: Polyurethane Paradise: Rainforest Rhapsody
Size: 79 x 12 x 72 in
Medium: Woven bottlecap vines on blue and white polyurethane rope and paracord, draped on a rolling Z rack
Inspired by the lush vegetation of my rainforest home in St. Croix, this piece transforms discarded bottle caps into flowering vines—evoking the tangled beauty of orchids, heliconias, and Birds of Paradise. It’s a meditation on plastic, color, and reclamation.
October 17, 2025 – January 10, 2026
Visions Museum of Textile Art, San Diego, CA
Festival Days: October 17–18
Next up: Blackity Black Blanket, Ladders travels to California.
Part of a larger zip tie installation that covers a full studio apartment in over 500,000 handwoven strands, this work transforms ladders into bristling, burdened monuments of aspiration. Wrapped in dense armor, they symbolize the weight of implicit bias and the tension of trying to rise while being held down.
These blankets aren’t cozy—they’re confrontation. They resist softness. They hold the sting of microaggressions and reclaim the materials of containment into shields of truth and visibility.
More updates soon from the studio and the garden. Stay tuned, and thank you for walking this journey with me.
—Theda
As we reach the midpoint of the year, I’ve been reflecting on how structure and intention are keeping me balanced amid the whirlwind of making, exhibiting, and traveling.
With Fiberart International 2025 now open in Pittsburgh—where Polyurethane Paradise: Rainforest Rhapsody is on view—and upcoming work headed to Interpretations 2025 in San Diego, the pace is full. Add to that ongoing work at Sky Garden STX, new writing projects, and my research around Provision Grounds, and it would be easy to feel stretched thin. But staying organized has made all the difference.
Lately, my planner has become a trusted studio assistant—helping me map out deadlines, break larger tasks into bite-sized actions, and track how far I’ve come. Whether prepping materials for an installation or scheduling studio time between trips, that clarity has helped me focus on one thing at a time without drowning in the big picture.
Travel also brings fresh energy into the studio. I often return from residencies or exhibitions with new ideas percolating—some that shift my original plans. I’ve learned to build in flexibility so I can respond when a piece wants to grow in an unexpected direction. Organization, for me, isn’t about control—it’s about creating space for creativity to breathe.
June reminded me that structure and discipline aren’t barriers; they’re a foundation. They allow me to honor the work, trust the process, and move forward with intention—even when life gets busy.
Here’s to the next half of the year—grounded, growing, and full of possibility.
I’m fascinated by the use of felted hair mats to clean up oil spills—how something as intimate and personal as human hair can so effectively absorb environmental damage. There’s a quiet poetry in that gesture of care and restoration.