About the work

There is always a way back to a thing that is itself. Not to its origin, which is gone, but to its present insistence. A cloud draws a line and then begins to dissolve that line, not in reverse, but simply as a continuation of its own being. The thing that was here is now here. And if it happens to be wearing a daisy, or holding a memory of a foot, that is not a condition of its being, but a kind of surplus. What stays is not what it implies, but what it has become.