Impulse Playground
Impulse Playground
Claire Zhang
In November 2024, I was called back home by sudden illness. Not my own, but my mother’s.
It had been eight years since I last lived in the city of my childhood, a place where, on the same day, you could touch desert sand, lie in a mountain meadow, and dive headfirst into the ocean.
It had been eight years since I last lived in the city of my childhood, a place where, on the same day, you could touch desert sand, lie in a mountain meadow, and dive headfirst into the ocean.
The magic of the West Coast.In the two months I spent there, I lived a life that, I realize now, mirrored my childhood. Every day brought a new discovery. I was fully present, in the sole company of my parents, offering my mother a deep attentiveness.
Like a bird perched on the edge, ready to fly to her care. It was the kind of attention a child gives to a small, circumscribed world.
On days I had to myself, I would go to the tidepools. Something in my body drew me there, especially on the harder days. I needed to be near water, whether in sunlight or, more often, under the heavy cover of marine fog.
During that time, I collected dozens of rocks. My return to presence extended beyond my relationship with my mother; it shaped everything. I combed the beach for hours, searching for rocks that caught the light in a particular way. I didn’t try to explain why I chose them, I simply followed the impulse. Crouching, picking up, putting down. Some made their way into my pockets. My car’s dashboard was covered in them.
A return to childhood, to the seriousness of play, and the boundlessness of time.
These 18 rocks are a small selection from that period. Since returning to New York, to work and my art practice, the rocks have lived in shifting altar configurations on my desk, dresser, and other surfaces. This altar-building, too, has become a form of play. An ode to collecting, something I’ve loved since I was a child.
From immense grief came wonder. Reconnection. Devotion. Attention. Play.
And, in this issue: a rock playground.
Like a bird perched on the edge, ready to fly to her care. It was the kind of attention a child gives to a small, circumscribed world.
On days I had to myself, I would go to the tidepools. Something in my body drew me there, especially on the harder days. I needed to be near water, whether in sunlight or, more often, under the heavy cover of marine fog.
During that time, I collected dozens of rocks. My return to presence extended beyond my relationship with my mother; it shaped everything. I combed the beach for hours, searching for rocks that caught the light in a particular way. I didn’t try to explain why I chose them, I simply followed the impulse. Crouching, picking up, putting down. Some made their way into my pockets. My car’s dashboard was covered in them.
A return to childhood, to the seriousness of play, and the boundlessness of time.
These 18 rocks are a small selection from that period. Since returning to New York, to work and my art practice, the rocks have lived in shifting altar configurations on my desk, dresser, and other surfaces. This altar-building, too, has become a form of play. An ode to collecting, something I’ve loved since I was a child.
From immense grief came wonder. Reconnection. Devotion. Attention. Play.
And, in this issue: a rock playground.