I Have Nothing To Hide, 2025
I stage icons as seductive vessels of projection, where transparency masks control. Through administrative furniture, artificial materials, and auto-fictional sound, I expose the quiet violence of standardisation. Desire performs like a corporate interface: engineered, replaceable, and oddly intimate, a tactical bad joke suspended between the real and the spectacle.
Image (horizontal view) credit above: Django van Ardenne
Image (vertical view) credit above: Django van ArdenneMaterials: Sound; 3D-printed figure in semi-transparent resin; laser-engraved transparent acrylic; print on clear film; ready-made objects.
Dimensions: variable.
Each folder is engraved with a mixture of personal and system-derived content: a selfie, photographs by me or Quinty, garments designed and printed by me.
Overlaid with these images are familiar macOS system icons—iCloud, Download, AirDrop, Utilities, and Trash—paired with screenshots of background processes and applications
“bird” (iCloud file-syncing, paired with iCloud); “iconserviceagent” (system icon rendering, paired with download)
“Console” (system log/diagnostics, paired with Utilities); “Markdown” (plain-text formatting, paired with Trash)
Running along the base is a continuous line of engraved text: a fragmented excerpt from Apple’s Think Different campaign, split across the set
For the fun fact & reference: https://basicappleguy.com/basicappleblog/heres-to-the-crazy-ones
Auto-fiction written by me, narrated by my cloned voice, layered with a slowed-down version of Shady Business by David Renda.
Special thanks to my tutors Josefin, Tom, Arvo, and Ruoru for your insight and guidance; to the printing workshop staff Walter, Nicole, and Sjoerd for your assistance with digital printing, sublimation, and heat pressing; and to Bart for your support with laser cutting and engraving.
Gratitude to my friends and amazing models Adelia, Anahit, Jacqueline, and Keer. Also to Vladmir, for your help with the 3D sculpting process.
Thanks also to Guang Dong Fohan Technology Co., Ltd. for your expertise in custom large-scale 3D printing and logistical help.
And, naturally, to the silent companionship of wines and cocktails that sustained the making of this work.
Title: I Have Nothing To Hide (auto-fiction) I had a car crash on Christmas Eve, driving back in town after I left my ex-girlfriend’s flat. My head was foggy—pyrexia hitting hard—and then I bumped into the back of another car while starting up after the traffic light turned green. The sky was grey, and the ground was cold. I had to sign my signature for the police report. It wasn’t a bad rear-end collision, but the licence plate fell off with a bit of leakage under the engine, so I had to wait for the trailer. The girl in the front car cursed at me for being very inconsiderate, she said I broke her hair clips. But she has short hair, a pixie cut. Maybe she should try another way if she wanted to defraud me for compensation. My throat was too dry and tight; I couldn't even bear another cigarette. So I ignored her. My father called me yesterday. I was never prepared for his calls or messages because we barely speak. He is the robot commando, instructions only, just status updates, not conversations. We talk past each other, always have. I have to ask my ex-girlfriend to carry her cat outside so I can focus and then dissociate. I don’t want her cat to kill the mood, it’s not healthy for me intellectually. Then, there are flashbacks from a Netflix show, Baby Reindeer. I was completely disgusted by the story and the close-up shots. If Martha had been Nicole Kidman, it would be hot, and even more disgusting, as you can romanticise a gorgeous stalker. It must feel like getting caught cheating with an acquaintance in this car, the one I am driving now. I would regret it a month later. That kind of regret comes with muscle memory. You know, it only takes 6 people to connect us all together. I didn’t even bother to check my phone to see what they texted, I’ve just switched off the notifications. Then the surroundings go quiet again. Car crashes and all kinds of accidents are always fascinating to watch — even more so to experience. They're the only true 50-50 event in life: live or die. But not in the erotic way Ballard once wrote: “The car crash may be perceived unconsciously as a fertilising rather than destructive event, a liberation of sexual energy.” What I recognise is the familiar sting of disappointment, a suppressive form of intimacy gone wrong. I agree that near-death experiences are liberating, but I’m scared of the word liberation. A pious, bourgeois certitude that now feels like a trap. It doesn’t free you — it hollows you out. The other day, when I was chilling outside a cafe with a friend, she said she was a regular at a cute matcha place and heard that they are opening another store closer to her apartment. So she followed the manager’s ig account and DM her if they could hang out at some point. The manager asked: Is she asking her out as a friend or something else? Then texted I’m sorry that I’m not into girls. And my dear friend asked me: Do I look like this generic Lesbian face or what? what the fuck? why? And we lost it. I said, you should’ve just replied: I hope this message finds you well, I’m desperately looking for a job, don’t worry, you’re not my type. The traffic was bad, and it was rush hour; the highway was completely jammed, but I could not be more relaxed. My mother called me when I was daydreaming in the traffic jam. And announced that they had cancelled the reservation at the restaurant for the meeting, so I’ll need to take care of dinner myself. She asked me to call her back when I arrive at the 4S store, she’ll pick me up if I want her to do so, and of course, I declined her offer. I’m going to get drunk today, I won’t let her ruin my night. What a coincidence — the girl I hooked up with had just gotten a tattoo: psychedelic, probably in Helvetica Neue, with a realistic blue mushroom above it. I had to compliment her. It was cute. It looked real. But it was insufferable to look at. I can’t imagine how bad the colour will be once it fades. She basically bought a birthmark, and now I’m tethered to her story every time someone asks about it. Every time I see a blue mushroom, I think of her. A host-parasite relationship. It got worse when the blue in her tattoo matched the cocktail I ordered — some kind of blue Daiquiri served in a bird-shaped glass that looked exactly like old Twitter. Street lights flickering on the window, I’m back at the McKittrick Hotel, walking into a dim-lit room, half-awake in Sleep No More. Sitting in the passenger seat, perhaps the radio playing nostalgic music set the scene. Instead of masks, I was holding the eight of spades in my hand, a healer card, they said. The desire to be admired and prestigious, known for sacrificing loved ones in a drive to get things done. I was looking for someone to show me the way. Like the masked actors in the show — silent, exact, all-knowing. I made a promise to myself: no more tarot readings on YouTube. They stopped being convincing. I need the real deal — the private ones that I have to pay for. A pure form of torture: waking up in a married woman’s bed, her son calling “mommy” from the other room. I can remember her face and even the slight movement between her scapula clearly, but I couldn’t even remember what I ate yesterday. She smiled at me and asked if I wanted to have breakfast with her son, her husband and the nanny. Then I escaped to the shower and told her that I probably stank from cigarettes and alcohol, also it’s a bit too early for me to have breakfast. She gladly shared her towel with me. I was wearing her clothes when I met my ex-girlfriend, and she was avoiding me all night. A rainy and gloomy night, and the humidity was suffocating. Even the scent of rain couldn’t wash her off me. She complained about her husband when we were sitting outside the club. She and her husband were fighting over the phone. She told me that they’re just different, and she was like I don’t want to deal with it right now. I was just listening and thought, She reminded me of my mother. I was cosplaying the cathartic parent again, pretending I knew what to say. We were both shocked by her millennial friend, a punk in his 20s with old-school linework down to his wrists, who now works for the government. He says he wears long sleeves every day, even in the heatwave, due to UV allergy. Brilliant. Such a bulletproof excuse, and nobody would question that. Sometimes I think I’m the perfect case study of a negative Oedipal Complex. Other times, I’m just hallucinating inside Requiem for a Dream, swinging between narcissism and self-loathing. I tend to recall scenes like this when I’m running a high fever. Rooftop, evening, my ex-girlfriend dragging me upstairs to catch the sunset, the horizon bruised in orange, felt like we walked into a Turner painting. The clouds resembling the bottom of the rock glass served in a classic Old Fashioned cocktail, stirred, not shaken. The blood in my veins was about to exceed boiling point, it’s 40 degrees Celsius on the thermometer. Her lips touched mine, it felt marginally less catastrophic. I know it’s possibly love, and possibly just thermodynamics. My throat tightened from the comedic chitchat, still echoing in the left hemisphere of my brain, like a bare engine, stripped of its license plate. I have nothing to hide.
Title: I Have Nothing To Hide (auto-fiction) I had a car crash on Christmas Eve, driving back in town after I left my ex-girlfriend’s flat. My head was foggy—pyrexia hitting hard—and then I bumped into the back of another car while starting up after the traffic light turned green. The sky was grey, and the ground was cold. I had to sign my signature for the police report. It wasn’t a bad rear-end collision, but the licence plate fell off with a bit of leakage under the engine, so I had to wait for the trailer. The girl in the front car cursed at me for being very inconsiderate, she said I broke her hair clips. But she has short hair, a pixie cut. Maybe she should try another way if she wanted to defraud me for compensation. My throat was too dry and tight; I couldn't even bear another cigarette. So I ignored her. My father called me yesterday. I was never prepared for his calls or messages because we barely speak. He is the robot commando, instructions only, just status updates, not conversations. We talk past each other, always have. I have to ask my ex-girlfriend to carry her cat outside so I can focus and then dissociate. I don’t want her cat to kill the mood, it’s not healthy for me intellectually. Then, there are flashbacks from a Netflix show, Baby Reindeer. I was completely disgusted by the story and the close-up shots. If Martha had been Nicole Kidman, it would be hot, and even more disgusting, as you can romanticise a gorgeous stalker. It must feel like getting caught cheating with an acquaintance in this car, the one I am driving now. I would regret it a month later. That kind of regret comes with muscle memory. You know, it only takes 6 people to connect us all together. I didn’t even bother to check my phone to see what they texted, I’ve just switched off the notifications. Then the surroundings go quiet again. Car crashes and all kinds of accidents are always fascinating to watch — even more so to experience. They're the only true 50-50 event in life: live or die. But not in the erotic way Ballard once wrote: “The car crash may be perceived unconsciously as a fertilising rather than destructive event, a liberation of sexual energy.” What I recognise is the familiar sting of disappointment, a suppressive form of intimacy gone wrong. I agree that near-death experiences are liberating, but I’m scared of the word liberation. A pious, bourgeois certitude that now feels like a trap. It doesn’t free you — it hollows you out. The other day, when I was chilling outside a cafe with a friend, she said she was a regular at a cute matcha place and heard that they are opening another store closer to her apartment. So she followed the manager’s ig account and DM her if they could hang out at some point. The manager asked: Is she asking her out as a friend or something else? Then texted I’m sorry that I’m not into girls. And my dear friend asked me: Do I look like this generic Lesbian face or what? what the fuck? why? And we lost it. I said, you should’ve just replied: I hope this message finds you well, I’m desperately looking for a job, don’t worry, you’re not my type. The traffic was bad, and it was rush hour; the highway was completely jammed, but I could not be more relaxed. My mother called me when I was daydreaming in the traffic jam. And announced that they had cancelled the reservation at the restaurant for the meeting, so I’ll need to take care of dinner myself. She asked me to call her back when I arrive at the 4S store, she’ll pick me up if I want her to do so, and of course, I declined her offer. I’m going to get drunk today, I won’t let her ruin my night. What a coincidence — the girl I hooked up with had just gotten a tattoo: psychedelic, probably in Helvetica Neue, with a realistic blue mushroom above it. I had to compliment her. It was cute. It looked real. But it was insufferable to look at. I can’t imagine how bad the colour will be once it fades. She basically bought a birthmark, and now I’m tethered to her story every time someone asks about it. Every time I see a blue mushroom, I think of her. A host-parasite relationship. It got worse when the blue in her tattoo matched the cocktail I ordered — some kind of blue Daiquiri served in a bird-shaped glass that looked exactly like old Twitter. Street lights flickering on the window, I’m back at the McKittrick Hotel, walking into a dim-lit room, half-awake in Sleep No More. Sitting in the passenger seat, perhaps the radio playing nostalgic music set the scene. Instead of masks, I was holding the eight of spades in my hand, a healer card, they said. The desire to be admired and prestigious, known for sacrificing loved ones in a drive to get things done. I was looking for someone to show me the way. Like the masked actors in the show — silent, exact, all-knowing. I made a promise to myself: no more tarot readings on YouTube. They stopped being convincing. I need the real deal — the private ones that I have to pay for. A pure form of torture: waking up in a married woman’s bed, her son calling “mommy” from the other room. I can remember her face and even the slight movement between her scapula clearly, but I couldn’t even remember what I ate yesterday. She smiled at me and asked if I wanted to have breakfast with her son, her husband and the nanny. Then I escaped to the shower and told her that I probably stank from cigarettes and alcohol, also it’s a bit too early for me to have breakfast. She gladly shared her towel with me. I was wearing her clothes when I met my ex-girlfriend, and she was avoiding me all night. A rainy and gloomy night, and the humidity was suffocating. Even the scent of rain couldn’t wash her off me. She complained about her husband when we were sitting outside the club. She and her husband were fighting over the phone. She told me that they’re just different, and she was like I don’t want to deal with it right now. I was just listening and thought, She reminded me of my mother. I was cosplaying the cathartic parent again, pretending I knew what to say. We were both shocked by her millennial friend, a punk in his 20s with old-school linework down to his wrists, who now works for the government. He says he wears long sleeves every day, even in the heatwave, due to UV allergy. Brilliant. Such a bulletproof excuse, and nobody would question that. Sometimes I think I’m the perfect case study of a negative Oedipal Complex. Other times, I’m just hallucinating inside Requiem for a Dream, swinging between narcissism and self-loathing. I tend to recall scenes like this when I’m running a high fever. Rooftop, evening, my ex-girlfriend dragging me upstairs to catch the sunset, the horizon bruised in orange, felt like we walked into a Turner painting. The clouds resembling the bottom of the rock glass served in a classic Old Fashioned cocktail, stirred, not shaken. The blood in my veins was about to exceed boiling point, it’s 40 degrees Celsius on the thermometer. Her lips touched mine, it felt marginally less catastrophic. I know it’s possibly love, and possibly just thermodynamics. My throat tightened from the comedic chitchat, still echoing in the left hemisphere of my brain, like a bare engine, stripped of its license plate. I have nothing to hide.