Memories are easily lost. Building an archive of imagery seems to be the only way to bridge our connections to the pastBut at what point does an image begin to lose the moment it’s been created from? Is our memory the only thing that holds it together? Can the image itself still pass on love, care, or connection? 
At some point images become ghosts of their former selves, well worn, and long forgotten. Dulled by scars and slow discolouration, they exist in a state of decay that is too slow for us to perceive, outlasting the people that held them so dearly. 
Tinsel, sequins, and fringe ooze out as the subject’s fade. Dripping off the wall, transitioning from a past moment into something new. They rip apart and meld together, constantly shifting in and out of our perception. They become queer. Beyond binaries, leaking out of their confinements as things. They adorn themselves with objects that tell stories. This accumulation becomes a being. 
Those who nourish us, guide us, love us. They are made up of the things they leave behind. 

Forever ​​​​​​​
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