Pretensions and Obscure Details

Back in the spring of 2019, I found myself just beyond the borders of Chinatown with my father and my grandparents. A bustle of families waited for their turn at dim sum and tea. We had at least half an hour before our turn.

To pass the time, I wandered down the street and peered into the nearby shop windows. Most of them were covered with posters, flyers, miscellaneous paper décor, and the residue of old tape. Glossy colors mingled with objects faded by hundreds of sunny days. At one corner of the block, a metal gate was propped open. Sunlight glinted on stacks of porcelain and pottery reaching precariously towards the ceiling.

My grandfather had followed me down to the corner. I remember him sharing some rather pretentious statements about the goods sold at such stores, though I can’t remember exactly what his remarks were. I personally found the sight charming. I snapped a quick photo while listening to his commentary.

When I first revisited the photo and created a sketch of it in the summer of 2025, the tiny patterns on the porcelain vessels felt like they might be a therapeutic exercise. But I must’ve lost track of the scale I was sketching at, because when I picked up my knife, my dreams for a calming, grounded process were swept away. Aversion took its place. I took days to finish the first vessel. I avoided the rest of the piece for the remainder of the year. Some details fell to the floor with the scraps, which meant that my only option was to struggle with the smallest of the shapes a second time. It felt preposterous to let those tiny leaves and curls get the best of me. When I finally glued the last pieces in place this past week, my satisfaction seemed to have an echo of my grandfather’s pretentiousness from years ago: “Of course I would make it work out somehow—”