About the work

The hands on the asphalt curb are doing nothing. They are just there, resting, or perhaps drumming a silent rhythm, oblivious to the tire grooves. This is a moment of pure present, where the past that dug those grooves and the future that will deepen them are both irrelevant. The softness of the children, their faded jumpsuits, the gentle curve of their necks as they lean together – it all speaks to a yielding to the moment. There is a weight to being a body in time, a specific time, like 4pm in winter when the light is already failing, but these bodies seem to float above it. The book being gnawed on, the stale coffee, the thin linen curtains: these are the things that will eventually anchor them to a specific history, but not yet. For now, they are just hands on a curb, warm against the cooling stone, before memory begins its work.