What can survive memory? For home furniture, I sourced secondhand household items that used to furnish my home in Vietnam: the window shutters, the vanity mirror, the low sitting stool, which are not so accessible nor relevant to my current everyday life. These objects carry their unique sense of space and routine, which my body remembers but no longer practice. What “home” is is full of these ill-fitting dislocations, colored by distance and memory.

Things that stay in memory become only used for recollection; with time they belong more to the process of recall than to themselves. I drape them in veils to render how memory wears out its objects, effaces and conceals it, insulates it in increasing layers of imagination. The veils are pieces of plastic tablecloth I tear and bunch up by hand, creating a frayed and textured surface on which I paint and pool tea into pattern. Each memory-object both turns impenetrable and dissolves, forms zones of static that dot and frame my sense of here and now.