I have lived for years with scoliosis. The prescription was a rigid brace—effective only if worn all the time: in the bathroom, in bed, on the street, at parties, in class, in every social setting. I learned to breathe inside plastic and metal, and to bear the gaze that came with it. Gradually the brace became a nightmare; I monitored it, obeyed it, and it kept defining my posture and my presence.

 

The “Brace” stepping back from the authority of camera and lens so that representation yields to the handwriting of material, light, and support. The brace is no longer merely medical hardware; it is transformed into an icon of my presence. It appears staged across the sites of my life—standing in for me at the table, in a classroom, on the edge of a bed. Its outline, pressure, and friction leave tactile traces in the picture, pointing at once to my absence and my presence.

 

At my practice oscillates, the brace’s rigid geometry offers order, while ambient light, reflective surfaces, and the drift of time introduce contingency. I reduce narrative explanation to foreground the visibility of process and the brace’s closeness to the body. In this way, the relation among self—brace—scene is no longer a one-way medical discipline but a negotiation to reclaim my rights to my body: I insist that I am the subject of my life, not a name endlessly assigned by the brace.

 

I hope these staged appearances do not amplify illness but convert shame into visibility, pain into language, and ultimately return the gaze of the other to me—as a look I actively script and rename.