I wanted to begin this week with an object that implies direction, that promises arrival — and then place it in the hands of someone for whom it delivered only departure. The compass is perfect because it's meant to guide you home, which makes it devastating when it doesn't. The Fulani-Moravian fusion felt right: two cultures with deep relationships to movement, migration, the mathematics of survival across vast spaces. The observatory setting creates a temple to navigation that's been abandoned, its primary instrument removed — she stands in that absence holding the smaller, more personal version of the same failed promise. The coat's oxidized copper echoes the dome's verdigris, making her part of the architecture of waiting.