About the work

There is a particular kind of silence that only comes from things that are about to begin. Not the silence of ending, which is often full of echo, but the quiet of something just gathering itself. The air, for instance, has its own pre-dawn hush, a weight it will shed as the light picks up speed. It clings to surfaces, a kind of dew that isn't quite water, isn't quite air, but something in between. It is in this in-between where some thoughts also form, not fully articulated, but substantial enough to cast long shadows that haven't quite disappeared. Some beginnings feel like this, less a surge and more a slow, deliberate cracking, like ice giving way, or a voice before it remembers its full range.