Text A: an original contemporary practice extract.

At the clock repair workshop, I used to record the date each clock left my bench and the part I had fitted. The notebook looked wonderfully efficient: one neat line for every finished job. When a clock returned with an intermittent rattle, however, the line told me almost nothing. I could not remember when I had heard the sound, which tests I had tried or why I had decided against replacing another part.

I began writing down symptoms, unsuccessful tests and the reasons for my choices. Some repairs now occupied half a page, crossed through and corrected as the work developed. The notebook was less attractive, but it allowed me to follow my earlier thinking instead of guessing at it. A record of the finished repair had become a record that could help with the next one.

Text B: an original contemporary practice extract.

In the ceramics studio, I photographed the glazed tiles that pleased me and added the colour beside each image. The pages made my experiments appear orderly. Months later, I tried to produce the same finish for a set of bowls. My photograph showed the result clearly, but it did not tell me how thickly I had applied the glaze or which earlier mixtures I had rejected.

After that, I kept the rough trials as well as the successes. I noted quantities, changes and anything unexpected during the process. The file became bulkier and contained several distinctly unimpressive tiles, yet it was finally useful for more than admiration. I could repeat a result because I had preserved the route to it, not simply its appearance.