I like sausages.
My favorite butcher shop employs young men, eager bristled faces, white aprons. Rows of flesh shiny and partitioned, sold by the pound with printed stickers. Everything is bright.
Part of the art is the trip to the shop.
I bring back white bundles of sausage casings, hotdogs, chicken skin. Labeled. They sit in the fridge, they are opened, crinkly. The hotdogs are sewn with lace, canned, filmed. I stuff the casings with lace and pearls and dry them as a link, hung high like flower garlands.
It wasn't always about meat. I have made translucent flax paper that looks like skin, or thick sheets of handmade paper that looks like leather. But it has...