"Not the spectacular kind. Not the kind that arrives with a public failure or a dramatic ending. This shame is quieter. It settles in the body. It convinces you not to tell anyone. It suggests that if you were more responsible, more successful, more organized, this would not have happened. It tells you that asking for help would only confirm what you already fear, that you were never supposed to need it in the first place."
"almost casually, if the work in the background was mine. I recognized it immediately. Pieces from that storage unit were staged as interior décor by a Philadelphia-based vintage design shop. When I looked further, I found multiple posts offering parts of the work for sale. Not complete pieces, but components of singular works. Individual elements were photographed, priced, and listed under my name"
I couldn't afford the rent on a Greenpoint storage unit that held sculptural components, unfinished pieces, and modular elements that functioned together. The unit was auctioned without warning and the archive changed hands. About a year later I found fragments of the work being used as interior décor by a Philadelphia vintage design shop and offered for sale on Instagram. Individual elements were photographed, priced, and listed under my name without contact. The dismantling and monetization flattened the works' meaning and erased sequencing and authorship. The loss produced a quiet shame that discouraged seeking help.
Read at Hyperallergic
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