Soft pastels and watercolour. Dry and wet materials. I'm cutting you up and taping you down. I rubbed the soft pastels into you to see how much would pass through, how it passes through. I used you as a tool for blending, see how you diffused the material in comparison to your professional counterparts, tissue and my fingers. Then I swiped up excess dust with you and did it all again, to see how the chalk would cling to you. I painted on you to see how you would react, how your fibers would absorb the material.

I want to dissect you. I heard you can be made from wood pulp, abaca fibres, or plastics like nylon or polypropylene, likely a mix of all 3. Could I find out who you are?

Not everything's your fault after all. Paper type, paint quality, wind, fingerprints. You exist so subtly, I still don't know anything about you. Why did you do that? Why do you behave that way? Where do you come from? What long history has twisted you and given you these properties?

The watercolour almost behaved like normal. To the naked eye it seemed as though you were any regular canvas, though after diluting the paint even more the blue highlighted your fibers in an interesting way, like veins. The soft pastels blended nicely, evenly, you didn't leave a mark. Though the colour was less strong as compared to directly colouring on the paper. If anything, the colour clung to your skin and you became a double copy of what's beneath you. When I rubbed the triangular (nylon?) Lipton tea bag, the fibers would bundle up harshly.

The internet told me. I want to go to the living lab and study you under a microscope. Perhaps if I find anyone at the fabric station they could lend me an ear.