Home is something. A place where you can escape from the world and spread out completely in your own. When we are lucky enough to have such a place—to be provided with a roof and walls to preserve our body heat—we can fill it with objects, make it comfortable, fill it with stories that are dear to us, that reassure us—and even with flowers cut for the occasion. Left there for a while, until dust comes to bury them. 
       As a degrading agent, dust is considered physically harmful: it retains moisture, causes oxidation, infiltrates textile fibres and alters pigments. Aesthetically disturbing or a sign of neglect, it also requires constant effort to remove. Dust is considered a foreign body, a silent threat, a symbol of the passing of time. It accurately reveals certain habits we have with regard to objects: those we use frequently and only allow to become partially covered, those we dust conscientiously, and others laden with memories that tell our stories, displayed, then forgotten, sometimes rediscovered, or surreptitiously abandoned on a pavement, sent back in a parcel, sold at a flea market, stored, lost…
       Tirelessly, the tedious work of combating dust helps to stabilise the object in a fixed form, ideally timeless, in a kind of air-conditioned eternity. But this operation is also a fiction of purity. Dust reminds us that objects are porous, alive, situated. This is why one of the main principles of preventive conservation is quarantine: controlled atmospheres, airtight display cases, regular cleaning protocols, inert materials. 
       This fight against dust raises an ethical and philosophical tension: by systematically eliminating dust, what exactly are we preserving? The object in its original state?