What this was
San Francisco. February 2025. My 30th birthday.
0,30 was a debut solo exhibition and a fully designed experience. Not just work on walls. A room with logic. Every variable was deliberate: the sequence, the sight lines, the silence, the exact place where someone would stop mid-sentence without knowing why. The playlist was every song I listened to while making the work. Nobody in the room knew that. They were inside my process without knowing they were inside my process.
I have hyperphantasia. I daydream and visualize in IMAX. I had been designing this room in my head for years before a single wall was touched. The layout, the furniture, the coatracks, the way you encounter the gallery when you round the corner… every detail mapped and remapped until it was inevitable. When I walked in after install and saw it fully realized for the first time, I felt déjà vu. Not metaphorically. I had been in that room before. I had stood in exactly that spot. I already knew what it felt like to turn the corner and see it all together. The strangeness of finally being there in my body, in a space that had only ever existed in my head, is something I am still not entirely sure how to explain.
0,30 was built around the Therapy collection in its entirety. Every piece, in the room together, for the first time. Alongside it, the earliest work from what would become Love Letters. A second collection just beginning to exist. Two bodies of work at very different stages of life, sharing a room. It felt right.
One queer life. Made in real time, in the middle of grief, not after it. Not reconstructed. Not processed and tidied and given a frame. Made while I was falling apart. These are the originals. They still carry the moment.
The show asked one thing of the people who came: stay a little longer with one version of queerness. Not generalized. Specific. Embodied. A whole life, with flaws and fear and ordinary Tuesday afternoons where nothing dramatic happens.
All of them stayed.
0,30 was a debut solo exhibition and a fully designed experience. Not just work on walls. A room with logic. Every variable was deliberate: the sequence, the sight lines, the silence, the exact place where someone would stop mid-sentence without knowing why. The playlist was every song I listened to while making the work. Nobody in the room knew that. They were inside my process without knowing they were inside my process.
I have hyperphantasia. I daydream and visualize in IMAX. I had been designing this room in my head for years before a single wall was touched. The layout, the furniture, the coatracks, the way you encounter the gallery when you round the corner… every detail mapped and remapped until it was inevitable. When I walked in after install and saw it fully realized for the first time, I felt déjà vu. Not metaphorically. I had been in that room before. I had stood in exactly that spot. I already knew what it felt like to turn the corner and see it all together. The strangeness of finally being there in my body, in a space that had only ever existed in my head, is something I am still not entirely sure how to explain.
0,30 was built around the Therapy collection in its entirety. Every piece, in the room together, for the first time. Alongside it, the earliest work from what would become Love Letters. A second collection just beginning to exist. Two bodies of work at very different stages of life, sharing a room. It felt right.
One queer life. Made in real time, in the middle of grief, not after it. Not reconstructed. Not processed and tidied and given a frame. Made while I was falling apart. These are the originals. They still carry the moment.
The show asked one thing of the people who came: stay a little longer with one version of queerness. Not generalized. Specific. Embodied. A whole life, with flaws and fear and ordinary Tuesday afternoons where nothing dramatic happens.
All of them stayed.
