About the work

Some things require an unburdening, a letting go. Others, a holding on so tight that the knuckles go white, but the grip never breaks. There’s a particular density to the air in places like this, a manufactured brightness that wants to convince you of a clean break from whatever came before, whatever came next. It doesn't quite work. The overhead hum, a kind of constant, low-frequency reassurance, aims to smooth over the edges, but the light itself is too sharp, too insistent, finding every loose thread. It’s a strange sort of theatre, this, where the performance is less about expression and more about an endless, methodical re-ordering of very small, very similar things. The real drama is always just off-stage, or perhaps, in the silence that follows the inevitable small collapses, the careful re-assemblies.