For Me to Know, and You to Wonder
I cannot afford to reshoot to achieve a perfect image, nor do I have any interest in creating one. I leave my bookshelf messy because it does not yet feel like mine–a sentence written in my journal a month before moving to my new apartment. The impermanence of my bookshelf gave me the desire to create work that was not necessarily archival. My words are written in pencil; nothing is forever, and I will rewrite whenever I please. The singularity and tangibility of the Polaroid makes it precious, and I have to accept whatever happens to it during the lifting process. These images give a face to the fragments in my mind that have been written down over the last year. Previously, my journals have grown thin from ripped-out pages from not being able to stomach a reread. This year they are tied together with a green ribbon and adorned with silver.
