Writing
Writing that begins with ordinary things: what they ask of us, what they reveal through use, and why some resist easy explanation.
The Trousers That Did Not Make Me Look Better
The blue jeans I had wanted for weeks carried a complete image of sexiness. The black pair added merely to qualify for free delivery allowed my body to stop adjusting itself, separating clothes that suit an image from clothes that suit a body.
What Black Keeps
Translucent earbuds and a pink work phone arranged complexity into readable surfaces, while my personal phone and computer remained black. Legibility offered order, but not everything unfinished needed to be immediately explained or displayed.
Wearable, Not Edible
I carefully pushed a real egg yolk to the edge of my plate while wearing an oversized fried-egg charm on my bag. The same form, remade in another material, separated visual liking from bodily consent.
The Bag That Carries Every Day
A large backpack bought for occasional business trips became the bag used almost every day. Its value lay not simply in capacity, but in the decisions it had already settled before an unpredictable working day began.
The Pieces of Paper with Eyes
Several swing tags remained among ordinary clothing labels long after their information had expired. Two eyes looking slightly to one side made a finished piece of paper unexpectedly difficult to return to waste.
