About the work

There is a certain kind of stillness that only comes from being somewhere you shouldn't. It’s not the stillness of rest, but of incongruity, a temporary truce with gravity and expectation. The air around it feels different, charged with a faint hum of unlikelihood. Things parked indoors, things that belong to the sky but are now pinned to the floor, carry this odd quiet. They wait, not for a wind to lift them, but for some invisible hand to rearrange the world around them, making sense of their presence. The light, too, seems to accommodate this strangeness, softening its angles, agreeing to a shared illusion.