Your invitation, opened out

Two inks on unbleached paper. Pictures of the two of you, made from your own photographs after you buy, and the whole week laid out like proofs on a printer's table.

Your own caricature of the couple stands on the page — no frame, no box — and the week is told as they change clothes, from pithi to the wedding.

Lucknowi white-work. Every frame and panel is made to look like embroidered cloth — padded stitch standing off the ground, catching the light and throwing its own shadow.

Your names built out of photographs — one Polaroid per letter — over artwork that assembles as the page opens. It opens like a camera, with its own song. Below it, every section is its own scene: a note on a desk, prints pegged on a line, frames on a wall.

The wedding as a journey. It opens as a boarding pass you tear, then you are in a window seat above the clouds — and as guests scroll, the whole page descends through the sky, past the week drawn as a route, to land at the airport.