There’s something quietly powerful about working with materials that have been used before—passed down, worn in, shaped by someone else’s hands. Whether it’s a ripped record sleeve, a cracked cd case, an unnamed floppy disc, or a dusty cassette tape, these objects carry time with them. They hold memories, moments, and meanings that extend beyond our own. And when we work with them, we’re not just recycling—we’re entering into a kind of conversation with the past.
In a world obsessed with the new, it’s easy to forget the value of what’s already here. But choosing to engage with older, inherited, or found materials can slow us down in a necessary way. It allows for a deeper appreciation of process—of working more fully, and connecting more meaningfully to what we’re creating.
There’s a kind of grace in accepting the flaws in something you didn’t choose or curate. A stain, a glitch, a track you don’t particularly like. Instead of skipping over or deleting what doesn’t feel perfect on first reaction, you’re asked to sit with it. To listen. To figure out how to work with it rather than against it. That process builds patience—and sometimes, something richer and more honest emerges as a result.
There’s also something grounding about using the same tools or formats as previous generations. We touch the same surfaces, carry the same books, hear the same analogue hums. In doing so, we reconnect with a physical, imperfect world that resists the hyper-speed of the digital age. We remember that creativity isn’t always clean or immediate. Sometimes it’s slow, uncertain, and shaped by things we can’t fully control.
From these materials, something new can be born—something that holds the past and present at once. A remix, a collage, a sculpture, a track layered with samples and noise. Creating from passed-down objects isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about continuity. About honouring what came before while reshaping it into something meaningful now.