What if a tree—not a planner, not a developer, not even you—got to decide how we read a city?

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This project starts there. Inspired by the way poplar trees move water with wild precision (shoutout to their five-pointed vascular system, nature’s own design flex), this piece imagines what navigating space looks like when you’re rooted, thirsty, and built for survival—not convenience.

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At the center: a dyed loofah sponge, hanging like a chunk of parched earth. Steel wires stretch downward like roots in motion. When blue ink gets pumped in, it travels—slow, deliberate—through the wires, tracing invisible decisions, dripping onto a clean-cut city grid printed on acetate. The map doesn’t stand a chance. The ink bleeds, warps, stains. It softens the grid’s sharp order, making room for something messier. Something alive.

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This isn't just about materials (though, yes, loofah = sponge/soil/hunger, wires = roots with agency, ink = water with a will). It’s about perspective. Every drop of ink marks an attempt: “Here. I searched here.”

And that’s the heart of it. The roots don’t care about zoning laws or neatly drawn blocks. They move where they must. In doing so, they redraw the city—not out of rebellion, but out of need.

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This project asks: What if nature got the pen? What if the systems we live inside—grids, borders, plans—aren’t as fixed as we think? Maybe survival makes better maps than logic ever could.