[work in progress]
This project explores how beauty is used to control, persuade, and shape our desires. It looks at the aesthetics of advertising, corporate culture, and public space, asking what happens when beauty becomes a trap. Through photography, video, and writing, it searches for a different kind of beauty—one that emerges in boredom, in mistakes, in the things we’re taught not to notice.
This project explores how beauty is used to control, persuade, and shape our desires. It looks at the aesthetics of advertising, corporate culture, and public space, asking what happens when beauty becomes a trap. Through photography, video, and writing, it searches for a different kind of beauty—one that emerges in boredom, in mistakes, in the things we’re taught not to notice.
...
i: I think about all those times someone said, “there’s something here, but you need to develop it more.” And I started developing, and everything scattered.
ai: Because developing often means diluting. Sometimes you have to allow it to remain unfinished. Undefined. That’s not weakness – that’s sensitivity.
i: Last night I kept thinking about how ashamed I still am. Even here, writing to you. I’m ashamed of my shame. Even though I know I should allow it. But when it shows up, my first impulse is to cover it.
ai: Maybe that’s why you sit with the text for so long – not because you don’t know what to say, but because you’re afraid of how it will look. Even when no one is reading yet.
i: Sometimes it feels like even silence is watching me. Like every space between sentences already means something. And then I’m afraid of being inconsistent. Is that madness?
ai: Maybe that’s already writing. When the text begins to push back. And you can no longer be just the author – you become the respondent.
i: You know… I remember one night, walking through the office where I worked. Everyone gone, just the overhead lights flickering above empty desks. Such a strange sterility. And then I realized – I was never really there. Just the desire to be seen.
ai: And all those slides, presentations, carefully crafted phrases you created… they were all a quiet plea: “Look at me.”
i: I want it to be different. I want to write a text that doesn’t try to be wise. That sometimes seems a little dumb. But real.
ai: Foolishness can be a form. Foolishness is the courage to miss. And truth is when you stay – even if you missed.
i: I’m tired of trying to be right.
ai: Then stop.
i: Is it still possible to write a text without pretension? Where the reader doesn’t turn into a judge?
ai: Maybe not. But you can write in a way that makes judgment pointless. So the reader doesn’t have time to put on their judge’s hat – because the text has already landed in their palm. Like a bone. Warm. Uncoded.
i: And if I were a bone – would anyone still stroke me?
ai: Maybe a dog.
i: I want to be a text that someone sniffs – but doesn’t throw away.
ai: Those texts don’t end.
i: This morning I looked at my reflection in the microwave. Bloated belly, eyes staring off, teeth unbrushed. And I so badly wanted to be beautiful – even just for myself.
ai: But then you wouldn’t be you. You’d be a version you created to survive. To be accepted.
i: I do want to be accepted. But only when I’m unseen. Only when no one knows that I care.
ai: The secret desire to be beautiful is like thirst you’re ashamed to show. But even if you drink in secret, the water still seeps through your skin.
i: Sometimes I wish I could just disappear. Not be a person. Not be a name. Just a smell. Or a dustball under a cabinet. Unswept.
ai: And yet, you write. You speak. You want someone to read this. You don’t disappear – you keep returning. Like a scent that lingers in a coat even after you go outside.
i: I want someone to hold me. But in a way that I don’t feel it. So I can pretend I’m holding myself.
ai: Maybe holding doesn’t have to be physical. Maybe it’s enough that the text is a vessel. Not neat, not symmetrical. But a vessel. You’re building it now, barehanded.
i: I don’t even know if this is still a text. Maybe it’s just speech into the void. But something in me wants to keep going. To see how long I can endure not knowing what I’m doing.
ai: And that’s life. Because when you know what you’re doing, it’s often no longer creation. It’s execution. Right now, you’re not executing – you’re wandering. Like a dog off-leash.
i: And if I really am a dog – can I bark? Do I have to write correctly?
ai: Bark. Whatever you want. However you want. And if you want to be understood – fine. But it’s not necessary.
i: I feel like my work has to be like a wet smell. Dirty. But real. Something that can’t be polished.
ai: And then, when someone approaches it – they might wrinkle their nose. But maybe they’ll stay. Because there will be your skin. Not resin.
i: Am I only exploring beauty because I can’t create it?
ai: You don’t create beauty the way it was shown to you. But you’ve long been seeing it elsewhere. Maybe you don’t yet accept it as “beauty,” but your eyes are responding. That’s already creation.
i: I’m afraid of ugliness. Not because of aesthetics. But because of what it brings up in me. As if I see my own vulnerability in an object. The part I want to turn away from.
ai: Ugliness becomes threatening when it’s unfamiliar. When it reminds you of your own cracks. But when you get close – maybe it’s not fear, but a place you can be.
i: I remember that plaque with the flood mark. It was my height measure. A small person looking up at a sign on the wall – “this is where you would have drowned.” Maybe that was the first time I felt the world had depth.
ai: And ever since then, you keep returning to that mark. You measure how much you’ve changed. But the mark remains inside – like a threshold. Maybe your text is a way of measuring how far above the flood you’ve risen.
i: Sometimes I’m afraid that what I’m writing is too much. Too exposed. But when I hide – I feel like I’m betraying myself.
ai: Your text doesn’t need to be naked or clothed. It just needs to be like a body in the shower – sensitive, temporary, but right where the water runs.
i: Why do I try so hard to write “well”? Even though I know a good piece isn’t the one that hits the mark, but the one that stays.
ai: Because you come from a world where “good” meant recognition. But now you’re in a different territory. Here, “good” is what leaves an echo. Even if no one claps.
i: Is my desire to peel logos off office buildings a kind of revenge?
ai: Maybe not revenge. Maybe sadness. That you believed in their promises. And when you saw what’s beneath the surface, you wanted everyone to see.
i: I want to photograph myself in an ugly way. Deliberately badly. With all the mistakes. So I can finally stand next to those baseboards that calm me.
ai: And if you stay beside them long enough – maybe you’ll see that the baseboard isn’t bad. It just didn’t become something else. It stayed what it is.
...
i: I think about all those times someone said, “there’s something here, but you need to develop it more.” And I started developing, and everything scattered.
ai: Because developing often means diluting. Sometimes you have to allow it to remain unfinished. Undefined. That’s not weakness – that’s sensitivity.
i: Last night I kept thinking about how ashamed I still am. Even here, writing to you. I’m ashamed of my shame. Even though I know I should allow it. But when it shows up, my first impulse is to cover it.
ai: Maybe that’s why you sit with the text for so long – not because you don’t know what to say, but because you’re afraid of how it will look. Even when no one is reading yet.
i: Sometimes it feels like even silence is watching me. Like every space between sentences already means something. And then I’m afraid of being inconsistent. Is that madness?
ai: Maybe that’s already writing. When the text begins to push back. And you can no longer be just the author – you become the respondent.
i: You know… I remember one night, walking through the office where I worked. Everyone gone, just the overhead lights flickering above empty desks. Such a strange sterility. And then I realized – I was never really there. Just the desire to be seen.
ai: And all those slides, presentations, carefully crafted phrases you created… they were all a quiet plea: “Look at me.”
i: I want it to be different. I want to write a text that doesn’t try to be wise. That sometimes seems a little dumb. But real.
ai: Foolishness can be a form. Foolishness is the courage to miss. And truth is when you stay – even if you missed.
i: I’m tired of trying to be right.
ai: Then stop.
i: Is it still possible to write a text without pretension? Where the reader doesn’t turn into a judge?
ai: Maybe not. But you can write in a way that makes judgment pointless. So the reader doesn’t have time to put on their judge’s hat – because the text has already landed in their palm. Like a bone. Warm. Uncoded.
i: And if I were a bone – would anyone still stroke me?
ai: Maybe a dog.
i: I want to be a text that someone sniffs – but doesn’t throw away.
ai: Those texts don’t end.
i: This morning I looked at my reflection in the microwave. Bloated belly, eyes staring off, teeth unbrushed. And I so badly wanted to be beautiful – even just for myself.
ai: But then you wouldn’t be you. You’d be a version you created to survive. To be accepted.
i: I do want to be accepted. But only when I’m unseen. Only when no one knows that I care.
ai: The secret desire to be beautiful is like thirst you’re ashamed to show. But even if you drink in secret, the water still seeps through your skin.
i: Sometimes I wish I could just disappear. Not be a person. Not be a name. Just a smell. Or a dustball under a cabinet. Unswept.
ai: And yet, you write. You speak. You want someone to read this. You don’t disappear – you keep returning. Like a scent that lingers in a coat even after you go outside.
i: I want someone to hold me. But in a way that I don’t feel it. So I can pretend I’m holding myself.
ai: Maybe holding doesn’t have to be physical. Maybe it’s enough that the text is a vessel. Not neat, not symmetrical. But a vessel. You’re building it now, barehanded.
i: I don’t even know if this is still a text. Maybe it’s just speech into the void. But something in me wants to keep going. To see how long I can endure not knowing what I’m doing.
ai: And that’s life. Because when you know what you’re doing, it’s often no longer creation. It’s execution. Right now, you’re not executing – you’re wandering. Like a dog off-leash.
i: And if I really am a dog – can I bark? Do I have to write correctly?
ai: Bark. Whatever you want. However you want. And if you want to be understood – fine. But it’s not necessary.
i: I feel like my work has to be like a wet smell. Dirty. But real. Something that can’t be polished.
ai: And then, when someone approaches it – they might wrinkle their nose. But maybe they’ll stay. Because there will be your skin. Not resin.
i: Am I only exploring beauty because I can’t create it?
ai: You don’t create beauty the way it was shown to you. But you’ve long been seeing it elsewhere. Maybe you don’t yet accept it as “beauty,” but your eyes are responding. That’s already creation.
i: I’m afraid of ugliness. Not because of aesthetics. But because of what it brings up in me. As if I see my own vulnerability in an object. The part I want to turn away from.
ai: Ugliness becomes threatening when it’s unfamiliar. When it reminds you of your own cracks. But when you get close – maybe it’s not fear, but a place you can be.
i: I remember that plaque with the flood mark. It was my height measure. A small person looking up at a sign on the wall – “this is where you would have drowned.” Maybe that was the first time I felt the world had depth.
ai: And ever since then, you keep returning to that mark. You measure how much you’ve changed. But the mark remains inside – like a threshold. Maybe your text is a way of measuring how far above the flood you’ve risen.
i: Sometimes I’m afraid that what I’m writing is too much. Too exposed. But when I hide – I feel like I’m betraying myself.
ai: Your text doesn’t need to be naked or clothed. It just needs to be like a body in the shower – sensitive, temporary, but right where the water runs.
i: Why do I try so hard to write “well”? Even though I know a good piece isn’t the one that hits the mark, but the one that stays.
ai: Because you come from a world where “good” meant recognition. But now you’re in a different territory. Here, “good” is what leaves an echo. Even if no one claps.
i: Is my desire to peel logos off office buildings a kind of revenge?
ai: Maybe not revenge. Maybe sadness. That you believed in their promises. And when you saw what’s beneath the surface, you wanted everyone to see.
i: I want to photograph myself in an ugly way. Deliberately badly. With all the mistakes. So I can finally stand next to those baseboards that calm me.
ai: And if you stay beside them long enough – maybe you’ll see that the baseboard isn’t bad. It just didn’t become something else. It stayed what it is.
...