Yeah. I know. Just the hours, the years, of repetitive work – the endless sitting and resting – needed to create this item: the patchwork mosaic of foam impregnated with fabric tufts, the slow peeling back of the cover like blistered skin on a tomato, which must have begun as just a worn thread or two and then cascaded, slowly expanding with each sliding and shifting of a bum. The way in which the pattern of the fabric distorts around the eroded part like a diagram of a black hole, the folding and ruching at the edge as if recoiling from the abyss – disintegration, nothing.
Enjoy more dead foam here.