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Back from Calais, so little to share: only images like so many others already seen on TV, and stories heard a hundred times. The only thing that spoke was a small piece of round plastic found at the bottom of my bag- the cartridge of a tear bomb picked up without thinking, strange pebbles that rain by dozens in the fields of Calais. But this was the only material I possessed, the only inalienable reality. Reality can be found when one being physically collides with another. Thus, as an anchor of memory, this object became the central point in an exercise of memory through the images I received in Calais.