Every morning is tasked with the retelling of histories. Before opening our eyes we feel in our bodies who we are. We remember 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 the day’s errands. For some time after particular changes, the shock of remembering resonates in the chest, impedes breath, 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 the details of faces. In this way we build up a diary of objects, seeking in each new surface that matching element of time travel – back to six months ago, maybe, when we felt that heaviness, that awkward turning-in, that surprising sense of belonging.
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. Here, these skins take on a rigid form, but still they find room to buckle and fold. Imitation of strength and softness is always flawed.