I have always been drawn to the idea of moving through time and space, but not in the scientific sense—more like existing in a state of "flow" or "in transit." There’s a quiet, reflective energy I feel in certain spaces, ones that seem to stretch or suspend time in a way that allows people to simply be. Train stations, airports, convenience stores, or clock shops all share this sense of purpose, places where people drift in and out, each navigating their intentions without much need for attention from others. These are spaces that allow us to be among people, yet feel a sense of solitude.

In the spring of 2024, I spent an afternoon at Montana Clock Shop, a small, rounded-corner store in Santa Monica, tucked near some lovely boutiques and a bakery. There, I met John, the watchmaker, and watched as clients quietly waited in line. It was an experience where I found myself deeply captivated by the stories that seemed to hang in the air, the heard and unheard rhythm of the place. I noticed how subtle gestures and expressions stand out in the quiet intimacy of a small space - the small interactions that emerge while waiting.

I was also impressed by how these small, delicate objects—a pocket watch, an old wristwatch—could encapsulate something as vast as time itself, like microcosms of personal histories, rich with untold stories. In a digital world that often smooths over these nuances for the sake of efficiency, this space felt like a haven for these deeply human moments.

For me, this project is a closing chapter to my undergraduate experience, but it’s also a gentle reminder to pause and notice the small details—moments that may seem inconsequential but matter deeply. In my art and design, I hope to capture these “tiny, teeny” things that lend life a sense of honesty and reality. It’s all too easy to lose sight of these fleeting moments, but they are the essence of what it means to be human.