About the work

There is a way of holding still that is less about stasis and more about the imminent. Not quite a pause, not yet a beginning, but a breath held just before the plunge. The blade, for instance, has its own kind of patience, a cool, indifferent fact above the warmth of what it’s about to meet. It doesn’t remember the last cut, or anticipate the next, only the weight of its own suspended being. The fruit below holds a similar, quiet expectation, its yellow surface reflecting the world around it with a soft, dull sheen that belies its eventual yielding. The very air around them seems to vibrate with a decision not yet made, a note hanging in the air, awaiting its resolution.