Writing
On What Remains
Remembering is just one way in which the past influences the present. Many experiences continue to shape our perceptions, decisions, and identities long after we stop remembering them accurately. Our grasp on the event might disappear but its influence does not.
Memory is not a storage system. It doesn’t preserve the past in a pure yet fragile form. We know from cognitive science that memory is reconstructive rather than archival. Remembering is reinterpreting. The past is revisited from the perspective of the present.
The original event does not survive that process. What survives is its residue. This is not simply what is left over. The residue exerts influence well after the event has moved away from us.
Past events will disappear as narratives but remain active as dispositions. We might not remember a traumatic event, but it continues to shape our present behavior. Similarly, positive experiences weave themselves into standards against which we judge present day experiences.
In that sense, we may live less from our memories than from their residual impact.
A scar illustrates this well. A scar is not the wound itself or just the evidence that a wound once existed from an event that once occurred. It is the structure that remains after healing. It records an experience without reproducing it.
My work explores this territory through composition, construction, and engagement with basic materials. Cuts, apertures, veils, and scars are not symbols for particular experiences, instead they investigate what remains.
Removing material and constructing layers changes the surface in ways reflecting the interactions of past experiences and their residual effects on current states and perceptions. I am less interested in representing emotion than in creating structures through which emotional residue is contemplated.
I am drawn to ambiguity. Ambiguity is not a failure to resolve tension. It is the condition from which ongoing meaning can be derived. Questions that remain open continue to exert influence. Answers do not.
- Jasper Simons (July 2026)
On Friction
We spend much of our lives trying to reduce friction. We seek comfort over discomfort, agreement over disagreement, certainty over ambiguity. We optimize processes, smooth out rough edges, avoid difficult conversations, and celebrate experiences that feel effortless. Friction is treated as an obstacle, something standing between us and the life we want.
Yet the experiences that remain with us the longest are rarely frictionless. A relationship that changes us without ever fully resolving. A disappointment that lingers. A longing that survives for decades. A deeply held conviction that is challenged by experience. A lingering memory that refuses to fade. These remain present because they continue to exert force. They continue to generate friction.
What if friction is essential to becoming who we are? Perhaps it is a condition that is foundational to a worthy life. Friction is different from conflict. Friction is more subtle and more enduring. It emerges whenever forces meet without fully yielding to one another. Friction exists between competing values, competing needs, competing identities. It appears whenever we are confronted with two realities. When that happens, friction puts our identity on notice.
Friction occurs between the life we have and the life we imagine, between the need for belonging and the need for independence, between the comfort of certainty and the buoyancy of ambiguity, between the desire for intimacy and the urge for detachment.
These tensions do not demand resolution. They demand attention. In this way friction is related to ambiguity. Ambiguity creates friction in thought. Friction is felt ambiguity. Both resist closure. Both refuse to disappear once encountered.
We are taught that uncertainty is a problem to be solved. Yet certainty tends to become invisible. Once resolved, questions lose their vitality. Unresolved questions behave differently. They accompany us. They return unexpectedly. They ask to be reconsidered when we have new experiences. They remain active. The same is true of identity formation.
Identity is often described as something stable, something discovered or constructed and then maintained intact. Yet identity may be better understood as a continuous negotiation between what has already been formed and what continues to press against it. We are shaped not only by our past and present experiences, but by our ongoing engagement with them. Identity is a process.
Some experiences leave little trace. Others leave residue. A few leave marks that become inseparable from who we are. These marks are symbols of encounters that last and remain active. The most consequential experiences are often not those that provide answers, but those that deepen the complexity of the questions we hold.
Friction demands a response. It creates heat. It interrupts indifference. It forces evaluation and contemplation. Sometimes it creates pain. Sometimes it creates connection. Sometimes it creates meaning. Often it creates all three, operating at different levels.
To live without friction would be to live without resistance, but also without growth. A frictionless existence may offer comfort, but it would leave no impression. Friction requires participation. We must respond to it, endure it, learn from it, adapt to it, and occasionally resist it. Through that process, we become more fully ourselves.
This understanding shapes how I think about art. I am more interested in exposure than in resolution. I am interested in the conditions that make questions endure. A work succeeds when it preserves a sense of potential, when it suggests that something has happened, or is happening, without fully explaining itself.
The most compelling works of art often operate this way. They expose a disturbance rather than provide a conclusion. They leave room for contemplation. They remain active.
I aspire to the same condition in my own work. Quiet surfaces are interrupted by marks, disruptions, openings, and traces. These do not illustrate specific events. They are attempts to create a space where friction can be felt rather than described, where tension can remain present without being resolved. The goal is not closure.
If friction has value, it is because it asks something of us. It slows us down. It resists indifference. It reminds us that life is not a fixed state but an ongoing encounter between competing forces, desires, values, and possibilities.
Meaning does not arise from the elimination of tension. Meaning arises from our continued engagement with it.
- Jasper Simons (June 2026)