My mother's oven is in the garage. It used to be in the kitchen. Then it migrated, slowly, the way things do when nobody decides anything. That image stays with me because it contains an entire story without telling it. That's what I'm looking for when I photograph.

I'm drawn to the aftermath of things, the glove left on the pavement after a day's work, the mops left to dry head up, the clock leaning against a wall that isn't its wall. Not the action as it happens, but what it leaves behind. There is more mystery that way. Something unsaid.

I collect notes found on the ground. I make zines, collages. I photograph the people I will never know but who are always near me and I ask myself what their experience is, what story brought a toy gun to a beach, what happened before the bottles, what kind of life needs a gaming chair on a pavement. I want to build associations, small fictions grounded in the real, that interrogate the existence of strangers.

What draws me to the Aesthetics of Chaos is precisely this: chaos not as disorder, but as the slow accumulation of undecided things. The infraordinary, as Perec called it. What I don't yet understand is whether these fragments can become something with the coherence of a body of work, or whether they will always remain notes. Whether a series can be finished. Whether it should be.

That's the only kind of chaos I believe in.