LOGBOOK, ENTRY 3
SUMMER 2025
SUMMER 2025
form and fiction, assembled
As a hybrid of performance art and material study, cosplay mobilizes clothing, armor, and ornament as vehicles of narrative. Form evolves beyond decoration into a declarative visual language of memory to propose new methods of understanding. This work is capable of speech without verbalization, transmuting the body into canvas and conduit. The maker becomes the medium, embodying a fantasy in order to retell its story.
In other words, I create these costumes as a love letter to media that inspires me in a recursive gesture of reverence.
What details make a character feel real? Which gestures, proportions, or textures invite familiarity and provoke emotion?
I ask these questions in pursuit of the evocative moment when resemblance gives way to recognition.
Materials are selected for function and symbol. Patterns emerge through conceptual research, craftsmanship, and experimentation. Techniques, historical and contemporary, are combined to blur the boundary between the fabricated and the believable. Labor accumulates quietly. Some designs require weeks to complete and still resist resolution, requiring space for perpetual evolution and refinement.
Each costume gestures beyond itself, toward the story it cannot fully contain.
LOGBOOK, ENTRY 2
SUMMER 2022
SUMMER 2022
field notes from elsewhere
The bus stopped where pavement gave way to gravel and dirt. The driver offered no words, nor could we have answered if he had. Our destination was a retrofitted shed in Mosfellsbær. The kind of space made and remade with care. Amenities included a concerning number of spiders, a fold-out bed, an IKEA hotplate, and the most compact shower we'd ever seen.
The sun never set. It only tilted.
I was turning 30. It was the first birthday I spent somewhere that wasn’t hot. We bought skyr, dark bread, and boxed coffee at Bónus—the supermarket with the pig mascot that grins like it knows something. Maybe it does. The graffiti by the local school certainly seemed to. A round skeleton in a blue jacket was scrawled across the concrete wall: wide-eyed, smirking. Yes, it was Sans. From Undertale. Maybe he’s still there.
A day in Reykjavík wasn’t enough. We walked among glass cases and whispered stories, half-heard and still alive. The rest of our week was spent outside. We hiked and rode horses for hours along wet rock, muscles aching. The land didn’t yield easily. It wasn’t made to. The moss does not bloom for beauty. It grows because it must. We drank from water that had pushed its way through cooled fire. We stood in silence before a glacier as it wept into its own reflection.
You do not conquer this world. You meet it where it stands.
And still, I felt held. Not by comfort, but by recognition. It reminded me of home. Another edge of the Atlantic, shaped by salt and severity. Where the wind is more bone than breeze. Where hollow beaches erode into the ocean as seals watch from the rocks. The water there is just as cold, just as clear. Maybe that’s why I trust it. Warm waters lie.
Nature is not here to welcome us. It doesn’t care if we understand. But if you listen, truly listen, you might remember something that was never yours to forget.
LOGBOOK, ENTRY 1
SPRING 2015
SPRING 2015
i am an eye. a mechanical eye
“I, a machine, am showing you a world, the likes of which only I can see. I free myself from today and forever from human immobility, I am in constant movement, I approach and draw away from objects, I crawl under them, I move alongside the mouth of a running horse, I cut into a crowd at full speed, I run in front of running soldiers, I turn my back, I rise with an airplane, I fall and soar together with falling and rising bodies. This is I, apparatus, maneuvering in the chaos of movements, recording one movement after another in the most complex combinations.... My road is toward the creation of a fresh perception of the world. Thus I decipher in a new way the world unknown to you.” —Dziga Vertov, 1923
Avant-gardists of the interwar period were not documenting their world; they were building a new one. A cultural zeitgeist defined by radical invention and violent upheaval. The mechanical lens is unclouded by subjectivity. Without sentiment, the body is no longer a sacred whole. It is free. It can be disassembled and reconstructed. It becomes order, rhythm, acceleration. A man more perfect than Adam, remade through montage.
Factories, barracks, and infirmaries speak in utilitarian tongues. Uniforms imply function and conceal labor. The body becomes machine. It is diagram. It is speculation. Discoloration spreads unseen. Stains appear only when the uniform is peeled away. Stripped of support, fragility becomes visible. Adam is undone. What remains is residue.
Twelve looks proposed. Six patterned, cut, and sewn. All structured to interfere.
Take menswear apart at the level of logic. Remove, extend, and reintroduce collars. Stitch seams where none are needed. Ensure there are no buttons where some should be. Unzip a hood down the spine in a distended semblance of unfurled wings. Extend the crotch of full-leg underwear so it must be visibly worn. Pattern culottes into draped forms that no longer resemble trousers. Layer gauze into lengths that strain the category of “shirt” into “dress.” Then tear. Then tear again. And again.
Unfinished cotton welcomes saturation. Discarded materials—tea bags, coffee rinds, onion skin—crudely hasten signs of age and oxidation. The red ink came from a manual press. It exists only to record the frantic movement of human hands. Metal corrodes quickly in plastic tubs if fed the right chemicals.
Nothing in this collection offers clarity. It is a sequence. A distortion. A system in collapse.
The machine does not mourn Adam.
It composes his remains.