ISSUE 13: Liquid Assets
On the melty, languid seduction of silver.
There’s something about chrome in the heat. A surface so cold and hard, but one that drinks up sunlight and spits it back at you, warped and gleaming. It’s not gentle like gold, or soft like silk—it’s sharp. Clinical. But also, in the right hands, wildly seductive.
Silver and chrome are materials of contradiction. They shimmer like moonlight but signal speed, futurism, surveillance. Think of the rearview mirror glinting in traffic, the cool swipe of silver eyeliner on hot summer skin, or the clunky elegance of an old stainless steel fridge. They're utilitarian and opulent at once. They look like the future, and sometimes like the past’s idea of the future—which is even better.
But more than that: silver is liquid*.* Even when solid. It’s a metal that seems like it’s in the middle of becoming something else. It pools, it drips, it stretches across surfaces like it might run away at any second. It’s frozen motion. Mercury-light. Malleable, but with a backbone. Maybe that’s why it feels more alive than gold—it’s not trying to stay perfect.
In the 1960s, chrome became shorthand for space age sophistication—streamlined, aerodynamic, infinitely reproducible. But long before that, silver had already carved out a role in ritual and magic. Ancient alchemists considered it a sacred element, tied to the moon, intuition, and the feminine. In many cultures, silver was thought to protect against evil or illness—not just decorate. That shimmer wasn’t just style—it was power.
In art, it’s often used to unsettle. Anish Kapoor’s concave mirrored sculptures swallow their surroundings. Jeppe Hein’s chrome labyrinths fracture the viewer into a thousand versions of themselves. Artist Alicja Kwade has said, “Reflection is not just a visual trick. It’s about what is real, and what is perceived.” Silver doesn’t just reflect—it distorts. Which is sometimes the point.
In fashion, silver is rarely subtle. It’s armor, flash, attraction. Paco Rabanne’s chainmail dresses. Grace Jones in a silver bodysuit. Joan Jonas using mirrors as a costume and a prop in her performances. More recently, Coperni’s infamous sprayed-on dress—technically not silver, but with all the visual immediacy and spectacle. To wear silver is to court attention. To say, I see you seeing me.
And yet, silver has a domestic softness too…a sterling brush on a vanity, a baby spoon with a monogram, a worn heirloom locket that won’t quite polish clean. These are the quieter forms—things made to last, to be passed down, to hold a little of someone’s life.
Korean artist Haegue Yang uses Venetian blinds and chrome-plated bells to explore the idea of reflection as communication. “I don’t just want to make something look nice,” she once said. “I want to make it vibrate.” And silver does vibrate. Visually, emotionally. It carries sound. It carries light.
Maybe that’s what makes it timeless: its refusal to sit still. It mirrors, it moves, it adapts. It’s armor and adornment. Memory and surface. A metal with a pulse.
Next time you see something chrome—really see it. Not just as shine, but as suggestion. A portal, maybe, or a trick. Silver invites you to look closer. Even when it doesn’t give anything back.
This week’s goodies: A gleaming collection of objects that shimmer, flicker, and flirt—liquid surfaces, reflective shapes, and pieces that catch the light (and maybe your breath).
Next week: We go from chrome to craft with an ode to straw, raffia, and the delicate art of woven things—sun-soaked, hand-touched, and full of texture.
