Recently I have found a special satisfaction in photographing chaos. There’s something about the disordered mass of cosmetics, trash, or whatever else that resonates with me. I see something incredibly organized within these piles, as if they are exactly where they are meant to be. Throughout my life, my parents scolded me for the mess in my room, and I always obediently cleaned up after myself.

But what’s so bad about my disorder? I know exactly which pile contains the needed top or blouse, so what’s the problem with my things being exactly where I want them to be? In essence, our entire life is a disorderly sequence of events and people, from which we choose those that suit us. Throughout my life, I have never been a fan of perfect plans and schedules; they suffocate me. I choose chaos for myself, letting everything be wherever it wants to be, no other way.

pc: me