I just returned from Colorado where I saw some wonderful art, like these ephemeral, powerful fiber art garments by Wendy Mike at the Auric Gallery that floated like magical gossamer armor.

While I was walking, fascinated, through this amazing exhibition, I heard someone ask the gallery owner, “Is It Archival?” It’s one of the most common questions artists hear.

The question usually arises when someone learns that a piece contains unconventional materials: a scrap of paper from an old book, a rusty object, a found photograph, a fragment of cloth, a piece of cardboard rescued from the recycling bin, or silk stiffened with polymer..

Will it last? It’s a reasonable question. Museums ask it. Conservators ask it. Collectors ask it. Artists ask it of themselves. And yet I sometimes wonder if we are asking the wrong question.

What if the more important question is: Did it touch your heart?

We live in a culture that sometimes places enormous value on permanence. We buy acid-free boxes, UV-protective glass, archival inks, conservation-grade adhesives, and museum-quality papers. We are encouraged to think in decades and centuries.

But human experience rarely works that way. A flower is not archival. A sand mandala is not archival. A handwritten note tucked into a pocket is not archival. A child’s drawing on the refrigerator is not archival. Yet each of these can hold tremendous meaning.

As artists, we certainly want our work to be well made. We want it to endure as long as reasonably possible. There is nothing wrong with using materials that honor longevity and craftsmanship. But sometimes the pursuit of permanence overshadows the purpose of making.

Many of the objects I create are what I think of as objects of devotion. They are vessels, figures, fragments, and assemblages built from humble materials—paper, wax, cloth, clay, rusted treasures, and found remnants of other lives. They are not always intended to survive for hundreds of years.

Their purpose is not immortality. Their purpose is connection.

They remind us of a memory, a longing, a story, a mystery. They give shape to something that was previously invisible. They create a moment of attention in a distracted world.

Perhaps that is enough. After all, how long does something need to last to be valuable? A conversation may last only a few minutes. A sunset disappears in moments. A piece of music fades as soon as the final note is played. Yet their impact can stay with us for a lifetime.

Maybe the true archive is not the object itself but the imprint it leaves behind. The joy of making. The comfort of holding. The spark of recognition. The memory carried forward.

Archival materials matter. But perhaps meaning matters more.