Proust reclaimed memory in a cup of tea and that infamous bite of a madeleine. I wonder, had he been Chinese, if the memories would have flooded him in a sip of steaming tea and a bite of dim sum perhaps standing in for the pastry.
This vintage Chinese tea canister is losing its writing, strokes of characters breaking away leaving only decayed messages for posterity.
The breakdown of language exhibited here overjoys the Derridean streak in me. A deconstructed relic, leaving only fragmentary messages, to be interpreted like a fortune teller piecing together communiques from the remnants of a teacup.