In the spring of 2020, I began making sculptures that resembled pillows. Pillows made from the oils of orange, soybean, coconut, honeycomb, and lavender. Blue vervain, silk, mica, and quite a lot of dirt. Into these forms, I slipped all the stuff that floats in jars, small trays, and the back of drawers: rose petals and broken hair clips, obsolete electronics, safety glass which might have come from windows shattered by riots, keys to our first apartment, a few pawprints. We have so much love for these sorts of things. Some special consequence trails behind them, clattering unnecessarily, anachronistically. The emblematic trace of whatever—made more precious in the sun and catch of our attention. The last of their service value held by our interest, still. Attention often feels like obligation, and I am happy to place them cushioned, caught, and protected between soft layers, suspended, out of sight. For some time, they will exist outside the normal run of events, protected from unforeseen forces.