I feel an immediate relationship between my body and its size. It acts as a doorway—a portal—that can transport a wandering mind. It is a comfortable mass—not too expansive or contractive. I continue to look and notice one space, another, a third, a forth...fifth and sixth. Gaps and voids complicate its structure and seem to make it visually ‘flicker.’ I step forward, becoming more intimate with each particular fold, and catch glimpses of images and writing—nothing more, nothing less. I feel tempted to pluck one off the wall as if it were an apple on the forbidden tree, but I resist. I bend and move to the left and right and look between folds: a hand, the letters “i-n-n-o”, hair, a shirt, a head, numbers, more unknowns. I know more information exists but I am restricted from accessing it— I am both invited and refused. Thinking back to its inception I remember the prints that form these objects as discards. Not wanting to rid myself of these precious remnants, I began folding them as if writing a note to myself and placing them in my pocket to be forgotten in the present, but remembered in the future.
Excerpt from, A Constellation of Sorts: Pause, Glean, Repeat, Drift, Wait
