About the work

The pigeon is the only one who knows what it's looking for. Its single-mindedness against the broad indecision of the women is striking; a narrow focus amidst a wide, blurry discontent. There is a way the body learns to calculate the worth of things, not in numbers, but in the hunch of a shoulder or the slight downturn of a mouth. One might mistake this for judgment, but it is closer to a quiet, lived accounting, a ledger kept only for oneself. The pigeon, by contrast, operates on instinct alone, a perfect machine of desire and immediate gratification. What separates these two states – the human and the avian – is the presence of an unwanted, unbidden arithmetic. And a memory, perhaps, of what a better, fresher orange might look like.