Donuts began with an obsession with the monumental donut at Randy’s, a piece of vernacular architecture so oversized it becomes sculpture. I was thinking about scale, how everyday objects can become landmarks, and how artists have used simple gestures to measure the world. John Baldessari’s LACMA poster kept echoing in my mind: the pencil held up to the palm tree, the classroom exercise of using a tool to gauge distance and proportion.

I wanted to borrow that gesture and twist it. So I ordered a dozen donuts from Randy’s, set up a tripod across the street, and began aligning each small donut with the massive one above the building. The act became performative: holding a pastry at arm’s length, adjusting my body, the camera, the horizon, waiting for cars to pass, waiting for the wind to still. Each photograph is a record of that choreography, a tiny object superimposed against a monumental one, collapsing scale into a single plane.

Printed large, the donuts became artifacts, almost absurd in their seriousness. Pushing the fingers to an impossible scale made the photographs operate like tools of measurement, a wall of gestures and alignments that echo ritual and play.