Stop one. The Chipped Enamel Mug.

Hold it, if you can, in your mind: white enamel over steel, a blue rim, and a chip the size of a thumbnail just left of the handle.

The gallery calls this a working object. It was never meant to be looked at. It was meant to be filled, drunk from, rinsed, and filled again, four or five times a day, for years, by hands that had other things to think about.

The chip is the interesting part. Enamel does not wear away gradually. It survives, and survives, and then one day it does not. Somewhere behind this chip there was a single morning, and a single sound, and nobody wrote it down.

That is most of what we hold here: objects that outlived their own story.