I do this weird thing where I vacuum-seal my toiletries before I travel. It started out as a simple enthusiasm for orderliness and ritual, but then I came to admire it as an art object. The pack is functional, for sure, but also sculptural. I make one every time I travel, and each time, I appreciate the process along with the final result.
I started playing around with vacuum sealing while working on this rad sticker pack with my friend Phyllis. Phyllis had the cool idea to vacuum-seal it, and we were captivated by the prototype. Vacuum sealing has been something like an essential part of my life ever since.
As far as the travel pack, travel is inherently uncertain. Making the pack ahead of time is an act of control and predictability. All the loose, random parts become a single, unified thing. The ritual is calming, deliberate, and satisfying. What started as a purely functional habit evolved into a small joy and opportunity for craft during my travel routine.
The Parts
Lately I’ve been finding toiletries oddly compelling. They’re tiny, ephemeral, yet highly-engineered objects that interact intimately with the body—razor blades, floss, a toothbrush. They’re disposable and commonplace, but the way they feel and function has an outsized effect on our experience.
Beyond their subtle tactile pleasures, I’m drawn to the mechanics inside of them: the atomizer of a fragrance bottle, the lever of a nail clipper, the plane of a razor blade. It’s like each object has its own miniature mechanical superpower. I love that.
It makes sense that I’ve started paying attention to toiletries. They’re at the intersection of things I’ve been interested in: hospitality design, mechanical design, plastic, packaging, and disposability. Zooming out, this project is another instance of my growing curiosity for how people relate to objects.
The Process
The process of making the pack is its own fun. Gathering the items and preparing them gives the feeling of assembling gear for a special operations mission. Like pairing a travel fragrance with a destination. Physically arranging the objects in the plastic sleeve, working to minimize the space between them, is a Tetris-like puzzle.
Watching the vacuum machine pull the air from the bag and unify the objects is classic ASMR—weirdly mesmerizing.
The Functionality
Beside the ritual, the pack is practical. Instead of loosely tossing toiletries into a ziplock bag where they jangle around, the vacuum seal turns them into a single, compact unit, making them easier to handle and examine.
It also serves as a second—or, in some cases, third—layer of protection for liquids that might break or leak in transit. For a travel fragrance bottle, especially so.
The Look
I think the pack has a certain aesthetic intensity to it.
The objects look like they’re trapped under ice—suspended, preserved. There’s a feeling of claustrophobia, like they want to escape, but can’t.
At the same time, the glossy, sealed plastic makes everything inside look brighter, more colorful, and more curated. It showcases them like a product on display.
There’s something absurd about it. It’s precise, but disposable. Preserved, but meant to be thrown away. It reads as crafted and engineered––like something that might go into space––but contains cheap, everyday stuff.
I like the contradiction. It’s functional, sculptural, and odd in a way that I admire.
