In this memory-driven piece, Patmore reconstructs the bathroom from his third-grade elementary school, capturing the sterile brightness, the tiled repetition, and the institutional reminder to “WASH YOUR HANDS.”
But the scene is not pristine — a leaky sink, an out-of-order stall, and a taped-up sign reveal the quiet decay behind childhood places we assume were orderly and safe.
Patmore blends nostalgia with unease, transforming a simple restroom into a study of what it means to grow up: how the lessons we learn early (“hygiene,” discipline, responsibility) stay with us even after the walls begin to crack. The small pop of blue tape emphasizes the DIY fragility of rules meant to guide us.
This piece stands at the intersection of memory and maintenance — of spaces, of bodies, and of ourselves.
You can listen to nothing but rock music and wear nothing but black clothing and only date short guys in their thirties. Those are valid preferences. Choosing not to hire people of color or refusing to let trans people use the bathroom is prejudice.
After my high school boyfriend and I broke up, I went to prom with a group of single friends. While I was in the bathroom, I overheard someone saying, "Leah Budin put in no effort at all." Ouch.
