Reading response
Reading these three pieces reshaped how I think about creativity. Genuine creativity is not a lightning bolt; it is an ongoing, multi-voiced dialogue. It happens in quiet conversations with our own memories, in the subtle collaboration with the things we use (from a cello to an old keepsake), and in the uneasy negotiation with the consumer culture we both depend on and critique. This perspective helps me see that when inspiration runs dry, I do not need to look outward. I can listen inward instead, to the echoes of memory, to the rhythm of the objects in my hands, and to the contradictions that define my situation. Creativity grows out of this kind of deep and honest interaction.
These readings immediately made me think of today’s defining tool, artificial intelligence. AI embodies several ideas that appear in the texts. Like the “evocative objects” described in “Evocative Objects,” it can act as a thinking partner that helps us explore ideas through back-and-forth exchange. It also functions as a kind of digital “institutional memory” or “collective archive,” a vast resource we can access anytime. Yet, just as Elizabeth Chin examines consumption critically, AI also demands that we question its data bias and ethical implications. In this sense, AI is a powerful real-world example of how we can form a creative relationship with a complex, intelligent tool.
In an increasingly digital world, where memory can be stored in the cloud and physical objects are being replaced by virtual interfaces, how can we keep creativity anchored in the body, emotion, and real-world tension that make it truly alive? Can our interactions with data and screens still preserve or even deepen the human warmth and lived immediacy that creativity depends on?
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Sherry Turkle, Evocative Objects (Choose any two objects to read on – whole book available digitally through NYU Libraries)
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Harness Your Memory (Chapter 4) from The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp
Time Capsule: Object Prosthetic
Dear Piggy,
I still remember the first moment I saw you on the screen. You looked so soft, so pink, so perfectly huggable that I didn’t even hesitate. I told myself I was just browsing, but somehow, you ended up in my cart and then in my arms. It was an impulsive click, but one that changed the texture of my everyday life.
You’ve been sitting on my bed ever since, like a quiet witness of all my days and nights. Every morning, you are the first thing I see; every night, the last thing I hold. You’ve traveled with me across cities and continents, squeezed into suitcases, tucked under my arm on planes, always looking slightly out of place but completely at home wherever I go.
You’ve seen me cry into your fur more times than I can count, and you’ve also listened to me laugh, rant, dream, and spiral into nonsense at two in the morning. You never complain, never interrupt, and your silence somehow always feels like understanding.
Five years have passed since we first met. From that college dorm room in the U.S. to my room back in China, and now to this small apartment where I live alone again, you have followed me like a piece of home that refuses to stay behind. Every time I move, you are always the first thing I pack, as if once you are settled, everything else will fall into place.
Your pink fur has faded now, carrying a bit of gray from dust and time. You are not as fluffy as you used to be, but somehow that makes you even more precious. I can’t really remember what you looked like when you were new, and maybe that’s because you’ve already blended into my memories. You’ve become less of an object and more of a feeling—soft, constant, quietly present.
Sometimes, when I see you sitting there, I remember all the versions of myself you’ve known: the college kid who bought you on a whim, the tired student trying to survive another semester, the person who came back to an empty apartment and found comfort in your familiar shape. You’ve held all those moments for me, without saying a word.
Thank you for staying. For being the one thing I can always hug, no matter how far I’ve gone or how lost I’ve felt. You may be just a plush toy, but to me, you’re the warmest definition of home.
Jellycat piggy
NAME: 破喉咙 (Houlong Po)
Dear Headphones,
You were my first pair, and I didn’t expect you to change the way silence feels. The first time I put you on, it was like someone had cupped their hands gently over my ears, sealing me off from everything else. The world kept moving, but you made it sound far away, like a movie playing behind thick glass. I didn’t know peace could come from such a simple gesture.
You’ve been my companion ever since. When the city gets too loud, you build a small, private world around me. On crowded streets, you drown out the horns and chatter. When I sit down to work, you wrap me in quiet so deep that I can finally think. You are my armor against noise, my excuse to disappear for a while.
But you’re not perfect, and neither am I. After hours together, you start pressing down on my head until it aches. Sometimes your weight reminds me that comfort always comes with a cost. And I still remember that time when I went back to China and you suddenly wouldn’t turn off. I panicked, carried you from one repair shop to another, asking for help like you were a patient I didn’t know how to save. No one had the right part, no one could fix you. And then, days later, you simply started working again, as if nothing had happened.
I’ve lost your charging cable once too. I felt guilty for days, searching every corner of my room before finally admitting defeat. You waited patiently, silent as always, until I found a new one. You never complained, just continued to do what you do best—make the world a little quieter.
Now, after two or three years together, the paint on your sides is starting to peel. You look a bit tired, but I like you this way. You carry traces of every place I’ve been, every hour I needed quiet more than company. You’ve become part of my rhythm—the moment I put you on, the noise fades, my heartbeat slows, and the world feels like it fits again.
Maybe I should give you a name, like Houlong Po. What kind of name would you like?
headphone
felting needle
Dear Felting Needle,
I didn’t expect that one day I would write to you.
During those university years, we were almost inseparable. The first three-dimensional experiment, the late-night studio, the faint sting of a pricked finger, the smell of dye, the piles of fabric samples and sketches in every corner — all of it still lingers. You stayed with me through one project after another, from rough mock-ups to finished garments, from assignments sent back for revision to the moment they finally shone under the lights of the exhibition. Back then, the world was soft. Every small tuft of wool carried warmth, and every creation felt like a quiet confession. You were the drive behind my making. You taught me how persistence could turn chaos into softness, into something alive.
But now, my days are filled with light and pixels, with shapes that live on screens instead of fabric. I no longer prick my fingers; I click, drag, and code. The world I’m learning to build feels different—less tangible, yet equally intricate. It’s not a replacement for you, just another language of creation, another way of shaping what I feel into form.
This isn’t goodbye. I’m just stepping into a new kind of making, one that asks for different tools but the same heart. When I hold a stylus or draw a digital line, I still feel your rhythm in my hand—the quiet patience you once taught me, guiding me through new materials and new uncertainties.
So rest for now, my old friend.
Wait in that small wooden box, among the scattered threads and bits of fabric. I’ll come back when the noise quiets down, when I miss the weight of your handle and the resistance of the wool before it yields. And maybe then, we’ll begin again, softer and surer than before.