About the work

The moment when the noise finally stops, and then, a silence that isn't quite empty. It's filled instead with the echo of what was just there, a memory of sound still vibrating in the air, a physical impression of the absence. Sometimes, it’s a hum that’s been there so long you stopped hearing it, until it ceases. Then the hum is gone, and you realize you were listening all along. The air still remembers it, though, a faint pressure, a ghost of frequency. Like the residue left on a tongue after a very specific taste, a flavor that wasn't quite good, but wasn't quite bad either, just relentlessly itself. It lingers. And then you are left with only its imprint, the space it vacated, and the strange, flat light that was always present, but never quite noticed.