Laura Petrovich-Cheney Portfolios

From a distance, my sculptures resemble textiles, but up close, the weight, texture, and irregularities of the wood reveal something entirely different. I construct wall-based sculptures from individually cut pieces of salvaged wood, arranged into intricate geometric patterns drawn directly from patchwork quilting. The colors come from the wood itself, often layers of old paint from kitchen cabinets, doors, flooring, and furniture.

When I first tried my hand at woodworking, I was drawn to the physicality of the process, the precision required, and the danger inherent in the tools. But I brought with me years of experience in fashion design, sewing, and a fascination with color and pattern. I began to wonder what would happen if I took patterns traditionally sewn in fabric and constructed them in wood instead.

Of course, wood doesn't behave like fabric. It cannot be folded, stretched, or eased into place. The salvaged wood I use presents its own challenges. It is often warped, uneven, split, or riddled with nail holes. I work with these imperfections, deciding how to make pieces fit together while preserving the very qualities that drew me to the wood in the first place. I don't always know how a piece will come together, and sometimes the solution is more interesting than what I originally imagined.

My use of salvaged wood began after Hurricane Sandy, when I collected materials from damaged homes, including my own. The association of quilts with warmth, comfort, and protection seemed particularly meaningful when working with wood from houses that could no longer provide those things. There was comfort in organizing patterns when my community was torn apart by the storm. I continue to collect discarded wood from houses, barns, furniture, and roadside piles. The original paint, stains, nail holes, and weathered surfaces are part of the history I want to preserve.

I've always been drawn to things that don't seem to belong together. I love the delicacy of floral fabrics, needlepoint, and intricate patterns as much as the noise, power, and physical demands of woodworking. I am interested in the assumptions I make about materials, tools, and the people who use them.

Artist Statement

From a distance, my sculptures resemble textiles, but up close, the weight, texture, and irregularities of the wood reveal something entirely different. I construct wall-based sculptures from individually cut pieces of salvaged wood, arranged into intricate geometric patterns drawn directly from patchwork quilting. The colors come from the wood itself, often layers of old paint from kitchen cabinets, doors, flooring, and furniture.

When I first tried my hand at woodworking, I was drawn to the physicality of the process, the precision required, and the danger inherent in the tools. But I brought with me years of experience in fashion design, sewing, and a fascination with color and pattern. I began to wonder what would happen if I took patterns traditionally sewn in fabric and constructed them in wood instead.

Of course, wood doesn't behave like fabric. It cannot be folded, stretched, or eased into place. The salvaged wood I use presents its own challenges. It is often warped, uneven, split, or riddled with nail holes. I work with these imperfections, deciding how to make pieces fit together while preserving the very qualities that drew me to the wood in the first place. I don't always know how a piece will come together, and sometimes the solution is more interesting than what I originally imagined.

My use of salvaged wood began after Hurricane Sandy, when I collected materials from damaged homes, including my own. The association of quilts with warmth, comfort, and protection seemed particularly meaningful when working with wood from houses that could no longer provide those things. There was comfort in organizing patterns when my community was torn apart by the storm. I continue to collect discarded wood from houses, barns, furniture, and roadside piles. The original paint, stains, nail holes, and weathered surfaces are part of the history I want to preserve.

I've always been drawn to things that don't seem to belong together. I love the delicacy of floral fabrics, needlepoint, and intricate patterns as much as the noise, power, and physical demands of woodworking. I am interested in the assumptions I make about materials, tools, and the people who use them.