About the work

Some things are seen differently because they are held. The small weight of them, the subtle shift in temperature. What you remember of a bird, for instance, is not just its song or its flight, but the strange, delicate pressure of it if it ever landed on your hand. This is not that bird, of course. This is a carved thing, still and smooth, placed with purpose. But it is still held by intention, by the careful thought that put it just there, beside the spiderweb cracks in the enamel. Those cracks, too, are held. Not by a hand, but by the light, by the silence of the room. They are not waiting to be fixed. They are not waiting at all. They are simply there, a topography of small, silent failures that have become, by their very presence, a kind of landscape.