Teeth hold a specific kind of archive. They record what you ate, what you couldn't afford, what care fell through in a childhood spent adjusting to circumstances not of your making. For children of immigrants raised by single mothers, the dentist is often a place visited too late or not at all — not from carelessness but from the geometry of survival. Dientes begins there.
The environment is built from found 3D objects, photogrammetry scans of personal items, and images from my own dental records. The audio layers ambient waiting room music against a field recording I made during a routine cleaning — the suction, the drilling, the practiced cheer of the hygienist. Those sounds sit differently depending on the body that receives them. For some visitors they are neutral. For others they arrive as involuntary flashback, as forced accounting of what the body needed and didn't get.
The clinical document and the emotional memory are placed in the same room. Dientes doesn't editorialize about which one is more true. It just holds them together and lets you move through.
