Snack Code Expanse

There’s a violence to tearing a sticker from its backing; it’s never a clean break. I’ve been collecting these fragments for years—receipts, promo bursts, fan banners, cosmetic mask liners—stuff that lived in my pockets, the bottom of my bag. Folding screens used to hide something or divide space; here, they expose. I wanted the surface to feel both precious and a little disposable, like you could almost peel it off but it resists you: the way desire works in the city. Chrome and vinyl mirror your own face back at you among the snack debris—your reflection, but re-edited in my visual grammar. Every cut edge was made by hand: not in rebellion against machines, but in homage to the intimacy of labor, the imperfect perfect. What costs most here is believing that junk and shimmer, K-pop chants and coupon codes, could be sacred—just for a moment—when you catch the light right. That’s where I live: in the glint between wanting and discarding.