She draws a line, starting with the eyebrow and ending at the hip. Or starting at the hip and ending at the toe. Either way there’s a line, and the line is the bone of the body, the frame of the built world. Next, she fills the nylon with clay. With the flesh of a calf, the pulp of a part. She slaps it around, beating the pulp against the floor, spinning it around until the flesh becomes solid and a shape is born. The shape is a result of the slapping, the bending, the beating, but also of the room, of the floor, of the mind as a material co-conspirator. It is a performance like the one we do each morning: drawn a line, form a shape, confront the day as whatever we’ve decided to be. What emerges from all this is a milk tooth, in the sense of something that grows and disappears again — is built, and then crumbles, making room for the next line, the next shape, the next day.