A table covered in large-format printed macros of human skin, sealed under a material that made the surface look wet, viscous, uncomfortably alive. Presented at a university closing apéro, surrounded by looped audio of chewing, swallowing and drinking — the sounds of the body processing.

Part of what interested me was the tension between the object's geometry and what was on it. The table is a hard, clean, indifferent form — all flat planes and right angles. The skin is the opposite: irregular, warm, full of history. Putting one on top of the other creates a friction that doesn't resolve. The surface refuses to let the object just be furniture.

The piece sits somewhere near Kristeva's idea of the abject — the unease that comes when the body's interior becomes visible, when the line between self and matter gets blurry. But more than a theoretical position, it was an attempt to make that feeling physical. A table is one of the most neutral objects in domestic life. Covering it in skin turns every interaction with it — approaching it, touching it, setting a glass down on it — into something the body resists before the mind catches up.