The hoover was jammed so I had to open it, and when I cracked the bag the whole year fell out onto the studio floor. Dust clumps, lint, tiny seeds, a blue plastic shard, a bit of pink something, grit that might be anthracite from the kiln or just road, I honestly can’t tell. One of my daughter’s fake nails, like a tiny shell she shed somewhere between the stairs and the kitchen. I was meant to be uploading product photos, being useful, lining up cups with prices and tidy text, and instead I’m on the floor shooting Hoover Bag 01 like a specimen. Nothing wise. Just the underside of the archive, all the stupid little proofs that we actually live here while I’m busy trying not to call myself unproductive.
I wrote this in my journal this morning and figured I’d just put it here too.