To better understand the actual surface of my own body, I began a strange, slow craft project. Each day, I would select a small patch of skin - often whatever piece was easily available, or perhaps a patch that was grumbling a little- a dry patch, a tight stretch, an unexplained itch - and attempt to recreate it in fabric.

This iterative process of sewing, stuffing, threading, and folding forced me up close with the bizarre diversity of my own surface. I had to figure out how to materialise varying thicknesses of flesh in felt and wool, how to stitch the feeling of friction, and how to map hairiness. I looked closely at the moments where the surface was interrupted - the little disintegrations of peeling or flaking. Tuning into the skin at this granular level, I began noticing the slow, temporal embossing of everyday life: the rigid imprint of a tight sock, the unmistakable geometric tattoo left on the arch of a foot after stepping on a stray piece of Lego, or the crumpled creases of bedclothes pressed deeply into a cheek after a long night’s sleep.

Through this practice of active noticing, the skin stopped being a neat, zipped-up envelope. It revealed itself as a highly permeable, active membrane that behaves remarkably like a fabric. It stretches, yields, remembers, and records every material encounter. The skin acts as a fleshy ledger, documenting the heavy ways the rooms we inhabit press themselves upon us.