Situs solitus is the medical term for the normal arrangement of organs inside the body — each in its proper place, on the same side. As we grow, parts of the body slip out of that arrangement: not anatomically, but culturally. We learn which ones to cover, which ones to look away from. Falling in love undoes the lesson. The body returns whole — eyes, heart, fingers, shoulders — every part ordinary again, on the same side as tenderness.
In this series I take the parts the culture has agreed to hide and run them through two systems of erasure: pixelation, the visual language of censorship, and Pantone color codes, the naming language of industry. What comes out the other side reads less like a redaction than a flower bed — bold, scattered, a little absurd. Each one is meant to be ordinary in the way a paint chip is ordinary, and tender in the way a body is tender when it is loved. A thing in its proper place.
