On Memory: An Ethics of Dust
By Wes (8.27.26)
In the effort of “rethinking the repository” in an age of abundance, it may be useful to begin first with meditating on the perplexing function of human memory; how we take in, process, store, and recall moments in time. Then, once we have built some images to ponder on, I would like to turn the focus from inward to outward - from the mind to the built environment. The hope is to shed light on a spatial parallel between the inner world and outer world, and to thoughtfully engage with the accumulation of media and matter in a rapidly multiplying world.By Wes (8.27.26)
I had been thinking about memory for many years. But only in light of these reflections have I been able to put the words onto paper. It first came to me sitting in a dusty corner of the airport in Athens. I was with a student group, following 2 weeks of field work at the excavation in Ancient Corinth. Our flight back to Rome had been cancelled abruptly and so we were stuck in a liminal suspension. I sat on the dusty floor, not knowing what to do. I was wondering how memory was possible. I had the feeling that the work we had just done would stick with me for a long time. But I was searching for a visual image to explain how these fleeting experiences could leave an impression on my soft growing mind. How does the material world remember? I thought of the moon. A dusty glowing ball. The moon remembers when we first set foot on her. These visceral experiences could be understood as a footprint on my mind: the thin dust on the ancient floor mosaics, the beating Greek sun, the maddening buzz of cicadas in the shrub, the careful conservators perched on ladders mending vast frescoes piece by piece. I pictured the separate, seemingly distinct experiences of my life as trinkets on a shelf. Then I thought how terribly crowded this shelf must be! Was I hoarding these experiences? I continued searching for the ideal metaphor. Is my mind a library with all editions composing my selfhood accessible with a little searching? Or is it a storage unit, with objects and experience sequestered behind other more prominent ones, in need of a little excavation if I am to access the totality? Or is it a pile of vague building blocks, fluid components to a larger structure but incomplete in themselves? There is no way to know. Yet I remain interested in building this image.
In regards to human reflection across time, it seems things continue to grow stranger and yet stranger with the constant introduction of new technologies. In the grand scheme of things, the photograph is still young. Offering high resolution, stable imagery into ever fleeting moments of the past, the personal camera roll is the most widespread taste of time travel. However, I am reminded again of radical architect Cedric Price’s rhetoric:
“Technology is the answer, but what was the question?”
The pixel-precise image may succeed in capturing the appearances of things with accuracy, but does this resource steer us closer, or astray from the essence of memories? Photographers know well that heaven and hell reside in a fleeting moment, the snapshot of an instant.
The question of recollection may be drowned in the abundance of visual media. Perhaps, in social interaction, you have experienced a moment before where you are speaking of a memory and utter something along the lines of “hold on let me show you a photo.” And into the depths of ten thousand pictures you dive: the paralysis of recollection. Meanwhile your friend sits and awkwardly waits. Our library of recorded experiences was expanded with the camera roll, but what was the cost? The art of storytelling has lost its footing by the hands of precision. In criticism of techno-aided memory, computational artist Laura Subirats poses that personal intimacy lies in the open-endedness of our recollections:
“Perhaps it is the blurred photograph, dormant in an old hard-drive folder, that allows me to see most clearly who I once was. ”
I had asked my friend, what is the difference between a collector and a hoarder? Both deal with the accumulation of material, but the connotations seem to have vastly differing value judgements. He responded “A collector knows what they have, they can access their stuff.” The collector is seen as a tasteful and high-cultured individual, carefully selecting a composition of objects to form a larger, beautiful mosaic. The hoarder, on the other hand, is seen as a crazed and emotional individual, unwilling to part with their excess. In some dramatic cases, like the Collyer brothers, material accumulation is the death of us. The corpses of the infamous hoarders were found in their Fifth Avenue brownstone (weeks apart) amongst
“twenty five thousand books, fourteen pianos, hundreds of yards of cloth and thousands of cans.”
The acquisition of things is a time based process, (certainly, a measure of time itself!) and therefore more often than not, a one way street. Whether or not the notion of “the arrow of time” holds metaphysical validity, practical interests beg our attention. Perhaps the tendency/desire to hoard is rooted in a fear of death, a reach for immortality. It is imperative if we are to adapt to contemporary abundance to relearn the circular nature within us, and apply it to our external environments, be it digital media or urban growth. After all, philosopher Gaston Bachelard reminds us in the Poetics of Space that
“Being is round”
Image courtesy of Alice Otieno on Are.na
In 2025, Matt Prebeg, a designer investigating the materiality of digital media, began a project titled Digital Composting on the anti-algorithmic platform Are.na.
“Digital decomposition is the process of letting artifacts and fragments of our online selves break down.”
Users are encouraged to add old screenshots, half-baked note entries, and broken links before deleting them permanently, with the hope that maybe someone else will resonate with your scraps and grow a new flower from them. The treatment of digital media as a decaying organic substance containing the seed for new life may be a way forward in our effort to metabolise the overwhelming feast of visual culture. Indeed, pop culture has already made this connection. In the reversal, “rotting” today is defined as the act of sitting around all day, mindlessly consuming media. In this case however, the individual is the one decomposing, while an infinite stream of entertainment flows on by. Perhaps we could reverse this phenomenon…
“Being is round”
In 2025, Matt Prebeg, a designer investigating the materiality of digital media, began a project titled Digital Composting on the anti-algorithmic platform Are.na.
“Digital decomposition is the process of letting artifacts and fragments of our online selves break down.”
Users are encouraged to add old screenshots, half-baked note entries, and broken links before deleting them permanently, with the hope that maybe someone else will resonate with your scraps and grow a new flower from them. The treatment of digital media as a decaying organic substance containing the seed for new life may be a way forward in our effort to metabolise the overwhelming feast of visual culture. Indeed, pop culture has already made this connection. In the reversal, “rotting” today is defined as the act of sitting around all day, mindlessly consuming media. In this case however, the individual is the one decomposing, while an infinite stream of entertainment flows on by. Perhaps we could reverse this phenomenon…
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