About the work

There are moments when the world is simply happening around you, in a sudden, almost unmanageable generosity of forms. The mind, momentarily, finds itself without a single thread to pull. It isn’t that the brain shuts down, or that thought ceases, but rather that thought becomes a kind of static, a diffuse hum, with no particular point of entry, no singular detail that demands attention above the others. All surfaces are equally charged. The edges of things, the spaces between them, the small, almost imperceptible shifts in light—each feels equally urgent and equally irrelevant. You could say that this is a kind of freedom, a temporary suspension of intention, where the usual machinery of purpose, of knowing what to do next, is briefly stalled. The goldfish, in its cloudy plastic, is just another hum in this field.