Drawn Faces

Everyone here was someone. This is individual memory surviving as record, the point at which a person stops being a presence and becomes something that was found.

The faces are specific: different features, different hair, each clearly a particular life. Yet they are held in the same pale line, at the same scale, as the vessels among them. Time makes no distinction. A face and a drinking cup come out of the same layer and are given equal weight.

That is the quiet ache of it. Not that these people are gone, but that they are catalogued. Someone was loved, and is now an entry.

The stillness it creates is a populated one: many lives held in a single place, not one of them raising its voice.