1.
We put up a mirror     
in my room
when I moved in
after Lucy
left Texas
for New York
for a job
or network
that isn’t Instagram.
From a post online, she’s
found the room
she’ll be staying in
and it belongs to a musician
who our friends follow. I don’t
identify with his music any
more aesthetically than I do
emotionally, but I’m awed
by acts of hospitality–
online or in situ
associated style,
what constitutes the variant
textures of living right now—
ethereal voices
streaming across the ocean. I get
someone to Skype me
in. I’m used to the gradient
of the screen, now there is
a touch of intimacy
to its wavering. 
2.
I’m thinking about Mexican candles
as I do laundry.
The red ones Chloe suggested
would be nice against the blue
walls, all my clothes weaving
between the colors of the jackets
Lucy abandoned to me. Even if
we weren’t really friends
there is a comfort in having
known the previous resident
and whose space you are
making yours. This room
is pleasing. All
of my clothes accent
the walls. Lucy and I have
a few good photos together
on Instagram, and
today I was called
“Trendy,” 
mostly in relation to
who appears
in relation to me.
I try to
explain it probably isn’t
my style anyone likes, it’s just
that in being a part of
a body of a city
at some joint
a place knows you
can rely on it, and it is edged
with expectation and people
to follow because
they are already following you.
“Honestly,” I tell Sam
“all I care about is how things look together.
Just want to look at things
together.” 
3.
When
he comes over for the first
time, I want him to
appreciate my collection
of objects in the room:
I feel safe
when someone
agrees with me, translates
my joke. Translation
isn’t impossible—
sometimes the two sides
make a soft fabric
strong
by pulling
the way water
does, can move
and look like linen.


Press text by Zoe Darsee.
Curated by Intimate project and Later Gallery.

Exhibiting Artist: Annabelle Arlie, Per Martens, Heath West

Safety Net
Erratum Gallery, December 4 - 18