Who has the right to exist in public spaces? Taking cues from pigeons, we practiced deliberate lingering in commercial spaces without consuming.
Cast from cow dung and set in a rotating garden, these ceramic vessel holds what I can no longer carry. Can the shards of pain decompose and shape-shift? Does shit really become fertilizer?
What happens when we create a space from earth itself? Do natural materials invite us to linger differently?
Can I unravel Protestant and capitalist programming?
I try to refuse the logics of productivity and relearn how to pay attention.
What opens when we attend to what's usually ignored? What happens when we treat the mundane as if it has an inner life?
What if I built frames for a forest that's been curating its own exhibition all along?
How do you listen in a foreign land? How do you make yourself receptive to what you don't yet understand?
Can community exist—or hold—when built on systems designed to fracture and exclude?
Can materials connect me to place?
I couldn't escape the truth that I didn't belong there.