Pieces of Then

I pick up the cardboard shapes, these little fragments of color and line. They don't just make a picture, you see. They’re like tiny keys unlocking doors in my head. One piece fits, and suddenly, a feeling I’d almost forgotten surfaces, sharp and clear. Another clicks into place, and a whole moment, a specific set of words spoken, a certain slant of light, plays out behind my eyes. It’s not about the finished image, not really. It’s about the way these scattered bits, when brought together, weave a story, a truth that wasn’t obvious before.

I'm not playing, not in the way most people think. I'm sorting through these pieces of a past that, somehow, I already know. They're not just random bits; they're loaded. A curve of a cheek, a specific tone of voice captured in the visual, a shadow falling just so – these are the triggers. As they connect, a feeling arises, solid and undeniable, or an event plays out with a clarity that surprises even me. It’s about the quiet archaeology of experience, excavating the connections, understanding the architecture of what has been, not through innocence, but through a strange, innate knowing.


Stephanie