About the work

The light on the concrete is a failure. Not that it is bad light, but it has missed its mark, the way a spotlight meant for a stage instead illuminates a dusty corner of the proscenium arch. The three figures are caught in this errant beam, their faces turned away, suggesting they are unaware of being seen. This light, a pale, artificial echo of a sun already set, makes the grit on the ground seem more insistent, more permanent. It is the kind of light that exists only in places designed for transition, for arrivals and departures, where nothing is meant to take root. And yet, here they are, undeniably present, enduring this non-light. There is a specific kind of melancholy that attends the spaces between things, the threshold of an ending day, where the world is not quite dark and not quite bright, and the only certainty is the ongoing hum of the unseen.