We Carry Volumes
Standing in a room with few furnishings, in a space imposed by no specific history, we find ourselves without present distractions, unsure of what to do with the rarity of quiet. In these moments, facing into the corner, encouraged by a subtlety of surrounding, it is possible to enter in the day that second just before dreaming when, in darkness behind flesh curtains, chronologies fold in on themselves. Forward and back, the events of life twine together, revealing again we are transitory, revealing again how very much is connected.
Every morning is tasked with the retelling of histories. Before we open our eyes we feel in our bodies who we are. We remember the events of last night, of yesterday, of three weeks ago, or years. We weigh the change of circumstance, all our leniencies and hardships, and reconcile these with what we are meant to do today. For some time after particular changes, the shock of remembering resonates in the chest, impedes breath, and debilitates movement. But more often, and luckily, we are pressed to find the difference between days.
So we surround ourselves with things to remind us. Most belongings are fixed to memories, people we see through their skins. And when we buy objects free from attachment, they are always foreign and yet familiar enough to recall those same faces and stir up similar memories or ideals. From these new surfaces we seek that matching element of time travel. And though there are no set rules for collecting, there exists an internal logic that demands each new piece live in community with its predecessors, the one informing the other, and strengthening the sense of self within the whole.
But even with our practiced breadths of accumulation, at the moment we are forced to make sense of a person through their things, the feeling of lack is overwhelming. Our abilities of interpretation falter and we keep only what we find important for remembering. The sense of guilt is enormous. There is an immediate need to document everything as it lies. But eventually we build up the courage to search deeper, to shuffle the pages, to read what is written below, and satisfied, let them fall away again; calming evidence of the memories that exist with or without them.
These are the thin moments; built up in layers in a chemical bath and surrounding a center melted away, the internal structure no longer necessary to hold the shape of its memory. The unbiased, mechanical replication of electroforming readily communicates ideas of immediate preservation in the first moments of loss as well as the thinness of these attempts and the vulnerability of their permanence.