I’m fascinated by the mirror someone chooses.
When refurbishing vintage compacts, I sometimes replace the mirror entirely. Other times, I leave the foxing, letting the silvering fade slowly with age.
In my work, I tend to keep decay close to beauty. They are relatives, after all. It is somewhere between the two that the most interesting tensions emerge, where reflections become mirages and beauty reveals its more elusive truths.
A clear mirror tells us some truth about ourselves. An imperfect one reminds us of the truth we share with everyone who has ever lived: that we are temporary creatures, forever trying to make peace with time.
𝘔𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪. (Latin: “Remember you must die.”)
Sometimes, the beauty of an object lies not in rescuing it from time, but in allowing time to remain visible.
Tell me, would you choose the mirror restored to clarity, or the one that still remembers the years?