I used to know this table well but now I know it really well. I knew the ring marks on it, and I knew not to put a heavy pot on its far corner. It has one side that we would use more often, and the other would come up if we had guests. This table was one of the first pieces of furniture that I bought after leaving my parents’ home. This table has been the site of many meals and conversations, big and small. This table is an object that I have a relationship with, yet there are loads of objects that I regularly throw away or replace.

 

Fixing an object these days is not usually a practical choice, it is a sentimental one, as it is often cheaper and faster to replace an object than to repair one. I wanted to explore the relatively recent absurdity of the act of repairing by taking it to an extreme level and repairing the same object again and again. Of course this also meant repetitively breaking the table, which for me embodies the paradox of caring so deeply for some objects and so little for others.

 

After breaking and repairing this table for a few months, I know it differently. I understand its mechanics and how it was made. I have now not only spent a lot of time at this table, but a lot of time with it. I thought that it would be hard to piece the table back together again each time, but it would often break in similar places and so I got to know these fragments well too. Then, each time it broke, it would split into a few more pieces, slowly building into more segments. This table has been on a journey from a piece of furniture to an artwork, and so has my association with it. And as far as its role as a domestic object goes, let’s just say we haven’t been eating off our laps for the last few months.