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, about how everyday objects can become landmarks, and about the way 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.

Back in the studio, the images shifted again. Printed large, the donuts became artifacts, almost absurd in their seriousness. The grid of small prints and the trio of oversized ones turned the performance into an installation: a wall of gestures, repetitions, and alignments that echo the logic of measurement, ritual, and play.