SlipStitch

SlipStitch is now accepting submissions for our 2026 Pride Month exhibition, Where We Gather: The Price of Fitting In—a show centering LGBTQIA+ artists and LGBTQIA+ / AANHPI / BIPOC lived experience, and asking a simple, sharp question: what does it cost to feel safe, welcomed, and whole in spaces marketed as “for everyone”?

We’re looking for work that holds joy and truth at the same time: chosen family and found community; nightlife, living rooms, community centers, sidewalks; group chats, dance floors, galleries. And we’re equally open to work that names what’s often left unsaid—gatekeeping, code-switching, tokenization, surveillance, and uneven safety even within q***r spaces.

If your work explores belonging, visibility, protection, and the complicated math of “fitting in,” we want to see it.

You can submit in CaFE, link available on our profile

Lin-Lin Mao Mollitor is a Seattle-based Chinese-American artist whose work quietly insists on connection—between species, between systems, between what we notice and what we overlook. Born in Taiwan and raised in the United States, she grew up making with her hands—paper folding, knitting, crocheting, drawing—and that tactile intelligence still runs through everything she does.

What’s especially compelling is how her practice bridges worlds: trained in computer science, she even developed a digital paint program for her 1985 master’s thesis, and later—after raising two children—returned to earn an MA in Fine Art in England in 2017. Working across painting, craft, and installation, Mollitor reflects on empathy, perception, and the nature of existence, inviting us to consider the natural world not as backdrop, but as kin. She has been a member artist at Gallery 110 in Seattle since May 2024.

One Yung Kim is a Seattle-based portrait artist creating emotionally rich oil paintings of women navigating pressure, memory, and quiet strength. A first-generation immigrant and late-blooming artist, her work carries the imprint of dislocation, reinvention, and resilience—shaped by years living and working between California and Seattle, and by the distinct, shifting light of each place.

Kim’s portraits resist polished ideals of female beauty in favor of something more honest: emotional texture, unfiltered presence. As she writes, “a self can be whittled down to whatever will survive another judgment,” and painting becomes the place where that erasure pauses—where doubt turns into a line, a color, a fragile contour of being. Each figure hovers in the flicker between visibility and withdrawal, composed of “luminous gaps,” unfinished gestures, and exposed surfaces that let what usually retreats breathe for a moment. Through her Seattle Restored Artist Residency, Kim continues expanding this series—standing beside what insists on existing, and making space for all of us living in the shimmering unrest between absence and arrival.

Yun‑Tzu Chang’s “Lift” has that rare, quiet magnetism—surreal, tender, and a little unsettling in the best way. A single sculpted hand rises from a calm band of blue, reaching toward a sky of creamy, curling forms and a small, hovering house—like a thought you can’t quite shake, or a memory trying to surface.

What Yun‑Tzu does so beautifully is make gesture feel psychological. The hand isn’t just a hand; it’s longing, effort, and care made visible. In the gallery, “Lift” reads like a suspended moment between grounding and escape—an intimate, one-of-a-kind object that rewards slow looking.