Hester Finch

The ink of medieval manuscripts seeped through scraped parchment and wrote itself again over earlier words; I think of this when I see a slogan running across the fist of a portrait and the neck of a stranger, as though skin were nothing more than a document revised again and again. I overlay verses and demands onto photographs from different decades, allowing old language to act upon faces like a biological inheritance. Centuries change, but the tension remains intact: writing is never about adding something new, but about accepting that identity is built upon the traces of other voices.