By: Kerry Lauerman
Don’t you dare call it bric-a-brac.
By: Bryn Smith
A good umbrella is a faithful companion against the wet, dark night.
By: Abby Rapoport
I was unprepared for the deeply satisfying click when two tiles connect.
By: Marc Weidenbaum
The dummy jack was a sound art readymade.
By: Alyssa Giacobbe
Its former life seemed to have been a French fry bag.
By: Shawn Wolfe
The first and last box of Ayds grandma ever bought.
By: Kelli Anderson
A sculptural terrain that systematically shows and hides its facets.
By: Ciara O'Rourke
I held my breath hoping she wouldn’t move.
By: Chelsea Barabas
I practiced every day, jabbing the knife into the shadows.
By: Wayne Chambliss
A box, which is now filled — matryoshka-style — with many, many fetishes.
By: Mimi Lipson
There is no plan to install the tub.
By: Hilary Greenbaum
I now own more photographs of other peoples’ families than I do of my own
By: Carlo Rotella
A magic finger that can make an electrified plank sing.
By: Toni Schlesinger
I want a cloud that I can live on all the time and never have to leave.
By: Niela Orr
The Questions’ name is a cheeky reference to Iverson’s nom de play, “The Answer.”