Behind Glass
I made something and called it art. A frame I’d picked up in Munich, something from a magazine printed and mounted behind the glass. It turned out bigger than expected—almost a meter wide, seventy centimeters tall—the kind of size where you have to actually find a place to put it.
I photographed it quickly, before it fell off whatever I’d propped it against. That’s always the race. You’re scrambling to document it before gravity wins. But it held, and the frame made it look like something intentional, like I’d chosen this specific magazine page to display rather than just assembling what was lying around.
That’s what frames do. They’re a kind of lie—they turn anything behind glass into a choice, a decision, a thing someone wanted to show. I made other pieces after that, but this is the one I remember, the magazine page that the frame somehow made look like it had always meant to be there.