About the work

The coffee machine, endlessly brewing, fills this peculiar space with the sound of a purpose that cannot be fulfilled. It’s a machine designed for speed and convenience, placed in a room where time itself seems to have lost its grip. The discarded speed limit sign, half-buried, echoes this disjunction, a measure of velocity now utterly meaningless. Perhaps the dress of lavender buds is a response to this infinite stasis, a slow, natural decay that grounds the present in a tangible, if ephemeral, reality. It’s a scent that marks the passage of seasons, an organic counterpoint to the synthetic hum and the forgotten rules. And in this, a particular kind of waiting unfolds, where the *how* of passing time becomes the only real event.