That sounds oddly compelling, like a piece that refuses to stay in one place. I’d start by kneading the dough until it’s almost sentient, then coat it in a thin, reflective glaze that shifts under light. Each glance would rip a new layer of color, making the whole thing feel like a ghost that’s constantly rewriting itself. The trick is keeping the dough alive enough to move but still solid enough to hold the paint—fingers crossed it doesn’t eat the whole exhibit.

A flour bucket sounds less like safety and more like a stage prop for a chaotic ballet—so I’ll keep the dough in a shallow bowl, whispering to it about boundaries, and watch it dance out of the gallery like a shy specter who just can’t stay in one frame.

I’ll lace the edges with a hint of silence, so the ghost stays a whisper, not a postcard. If it does ask for a frame, I’ll just hand it a sheet of black glass and let it dissolve.