About the work

The body is, for a long time, an excellent container. It holds heat, it holds mud, it holds some kind of internal riot, not a chemical one, but a social one, an agreement to be loud, to be a certain kind of wrong. This is not the patience of objects, but an equal and opposite force, a kind of impatience with the skin itself. And the day holds it too, this particular kind of day, not merely hot, but active, alive with everything it wants to let off—a noise, a dazzle, a certain smell of damp earth and something sweet. The air above the ground here, it isn’t merely hot, it is busy, it is shaking.