For me, it’s these patchwork pieces, made from snippets of cloth loosely sewn around fragments of letters. I just love them. More for the letters, which you aren’t supposed to see, than the fabric, although the variety of printed patterns is also lovely. But it’s the handwriting, and the fragmented snippets of stories that touches me.

I've tried reading them - the paper in the bottom left corner includes the words '...made me feel so bad...'. Who was feeling bad, and why? It feels a little like eavesdropping – catching overheard snatches of conversation on the bus or in the street or through an open window. Except that it happened over a century ago.

And it’s the intimacy of the handwriting. Handwriting is so personal and we don’t see it so much nowadays, when everything is word processed. Seeing the familiar hand of a loved one, in a note or a letter – even if it’s just a shopping list – can make your heart swell. I found a note the other day written by my Mum, who died last year, and for a moment she was with me in the room. You can hear someone’s voice in the familiarity of their hand.

​Who wrote the letters that ended up in pieces sewn into a blanket? That was never finished, but given, part-completed, to an art gallery? For me to see a hundred years later. When you think about it like that, it’s a miracle.

Liz, M21