About the work

The bee, then, is the last thing that is not clean. Its erratic flight seems almost a protest against the newness of the clothes, the freshly swept ground, the water-streaked glass. It has no destination, no urgency born of an appointment, only the ceaseless, ancient imperative of its own small being. Everything else has been scrubbed, worn smooth by expectation, or perhaps by resignation. The quiet hum of the insect becomes the only sound in this waiting space, a sound that persists beyond the human capacity to simply endure. It reminds you that the world will continue to articulate itself in small, insistent ways, even when the larger narratives have fallen silent. This bus stop is just a pause, a momentary cleansing before another journey no one seems particularly eager to begin.