About the work

The barbed wire has given up its fight; a single, slack strand dips low enough to trip someone. It isn't a fence anymore, not really. What remains is a memory of division, a ghost of an intention that no one has bothered to dismantle. It stands there not because it is effective, but because the effort to remove it would be greater than the effort to simply walk around it. This is a certain kind of entropy, a slow surrender to what is easier, what is left behind. We accumulate these non-decisions, these traces of forgotten purpose, until the landscape itself becomes a record of inertia. The damp leaves, catching the first hesitant light, seem to agree.