HUMAN collects, in an outsized large format, the certificates and receipts a person passes through in a lifetime: birth permit, admission letter, driving licence, fines, certificates of honour. Giving such a vast format to the slips of paper most easily thrown away is itself an irony of scale: the more solemnly they are bound, the more clearly they reveal how documents over-discipline a life.

On the cover, barcode-like vertical lines form a distorted HUMAN, like a figure stretched by harsh light. It points to the paradox of a short life drawn out and estranged by layer upon layer of institutions: the person, who should be the subject, is barcoded into data to be scanned and verified.

The text pages switch violently between enormous headlines that spill out of control and rigid multi-column captions, echoing the tug of war between lived, felt experience and rational institutional discipline. Translucent papers let text from front and back pages seep into one another, like certificates layered indistinctly in memory; the rough, deckled fore-edge suggests that a life always keeps traces that cannot be formatted.