Plastic, rubber, rope, and foam. 2016.
Text included with object:
After an incalculable span spent practicing traditional gestures and straining weak cheekbones, she still failed to successfully pretend to like the kid’s gifts. The kid, aged in dejection, but not yet skilled at indifference, could easily recognize her thick displeasure. Today, on the most current holiday event, she unwrapped more of the same “craftily” wrapped paper.
Her mouth pinched tight to form the most subtle purse. Between the chapped cracks, her lips slipped out a sigh, which, upon hitting the brittle atmosphere, morphed into a low and slivery hum. Yet somehow at the edge of this humming sigh’s vibration something glistened yellow under the kitchen’s dusty bulb.
She looked down. Focusing with newfound sincerity, she lifted the Kitraptchionator from its debri. What an impressive sweaty yellow it was! Vintage popcorn, dry rot on palm trees, and aging men’s puckered knees literally paled in comparison to the Kitraptchionator’s sultry sheen. What began as a gift became a moment of clarity. SHE COULD NOT EXIST ON EARTH WITHOUT THIS OBJECT BY HER SIDE.
Her sigh found new form as a question, “What is it?”
“Just try it on,” the kid urged excitedly.
But she abruptly deplaned from her thrill ride. She noted the scratches in the smoked acrylic veneer, the dehydrated rubber gaskets, the missing instruction manual. The Kitraptchionator was too worn to keep. Plus, it wouldn’t match anything in the house.
Through counterfeit hospitality, she guessed the object’s function by jamming it against her forehead. Her lips sagged and feigned, “Does it go like this?”