About the work

There is a particular kind of anticipation that feels less like expectation and more like a gentle, low-grade hum. Not waiting for something to arrive, but for a signal, a change in the frequency of the surrounding air. The quiet of a place where machines have just stopped, or are about to start. Where the scent of something clean still hangs, a ghost in the humid air, lingering long after its work is done. It’s the same feeling as holding a new map, still creased, tracing its lines without any real intent to follow them, just letting the possibilities unfold, knowing that the journey itself is still distant, unformed. The light outside is already giving up, and the slow drift of something unbound—a loose thread, a forgotten thought, a lone balloon—is the only thing marking the passage of time.