About the work

The bicycle, tethered to iron, has known release. Not through a key, but through the passage of time, which has worn the paint down to the primer. It is a slow, steady kind of unlocking. The blue feather, startling in its vibrancy, is a reminder that motion, even flight, still happens. The feather itself is a kind of memory, a trace of something that was here and now is gone, leaving only its colour. There is a quiet conversation here about the way objects absorb our intentions, even after we’ve forgotten them. This bicycle, once a vessel for speed and liberation, now holds a different kind of freedom—the freedom of being utterly still, utterly present in its own decay. It is a monument to all the journeys that never quite ended, and all the beginnings that never quite launched.