Interiors | 2025 | Dual Exhibition with Madylan Coleman
You’re invited in. Literally and figuratively, Paden and Coleman use projection and distortion to personify objects in the home. These objects become an intimate and vulnerable visual language to investigate the past and present. They recite moments of connection and disconnection, seeking catharsis through their production. The work debates itself: what do we reveal and what do we obscure? How do we filter? Through manipulation of found and familiar artifacts, they shine light on the unsaid, and hope you’ll exit with newfound connection.
Participation Trophy
My 2008 boys’ baseball participation trophy, my friends’ 2008 girls’ ballet recital recording, projected watercolor video loop, display shelf.
On my side of the dugout, I’m taking deep breaths.
On their side, they’re spitting sunflower seeds.
They’re jogging onto the field. I’m following.
What inning is it? It’s too loud, too hot.
I can’t catch: the ball, my breath.
I’m up to bat. I hit the ball.
Stunned like a statue,
golden and hollow.
“RUN!”
I’d rather dance.
Toughen up. I made it.
I’m zoning out on first base.
“Nice, man.” A pat on my back,
so hard it stings. Drips drop down my
flushed face. I hope the boys think it’s sweat,
I hope mom notices from the bleachers it’s tears.
I want to go home. “Good game. Here’s your trophy.”
1 Year on PrEP
12 months of my PrEP pill bottles, projected watercolor video loop, mirrored medicine cabinet.
Tilting my phone away, I type “what is prep?”
There must be a reason it’s not on TikTok.
I hear my friend takes it. If he can do it, so can I.
Driving to my physical, I practice over and over.
I bet my doctor’s homophobic. He’ll refuse.
I ask at the end. He says he’s willing to prescribe it.
Facing the cabinet mirror, I pour one in my palm.
I’ll be nauseous. I’ll choke. I’ll die.
I focus and swallow. Every day for the past year.
Phone to Bed to Phone to Bed
A couple of boxers (mine and his), projected watercolor video loop, dorm bed and sheets.
I creep into the app.
It’s shady. I know
I shouldn’t be here.
No names, no faces.
My body’s jittering.
“hey handsome” I
type, thumbs numb.
I tap send, feels like
speeding through a
yellow light at 2am.
At first we’re both too cool. We cover up. We don’t go off script.
But there’s nothing like sex to break the ice with some stranger.
We both warm up and sprawl out in our boxers on the bedsheets.
Conversation like honey: our hometowns, our sisters, our dreams.
Then he spoils it all. He blurts out something so painfully earnest.
I should admit, “Yes, I feel that way too sometimes,” and hug him.
I offer, “It’s late, so I should probably go home” and zip my jeans.
Maybe all we want is to lie with someone else who is just as lonely.
We’ll never tell anyone we were here. We’ll never talk together.
I’ll never ask
for his name.
