Elene

Elene learned patience from an uncle who repaired books at the kitchen table and always left the oldest stain alone. She liked the idea that an object could remain useful without pretending to be new. At school she stitched secret pockets into exercise books, then became mortified when a teacher praised the construction instead of reading the poem inside.

Moving to Tbilisi brought brighter windows, a tiny rented workbench and the discovery that being careful is not the same as being timid. Her first independent binding opened beautifully and refused to close. She keeps it on the shelf rather than hiding it, although she turns its spine towards the wall whenever a particularly exacting visitor arrives.

Nino brings photographs in boxes that are far too immaculate. Elene’s job is to make their entrance archive welcoming to hands, not only eyes. Dachi repaired her temperamental book press, but she still checks its bolts before every run. Their friendship survives this lack of faith because he is equally suspicious of any instruction containing the word permanent.

Tako has asked her to build a paper object that changes shape during a movement film. Elene initially answered with a list of reasons it would tear. Now she is testing folds that are supposed to open unpredictably. For someone who makes dependable things, allowing a little uncertainty into the work feels both alarming and unexpectedly generous.