About the work

There is a certain way the world arranges itself, sometimes, that makes you wonder if it’s listening. Not listening to you, specifically, but to some deeper current, some half-formed wish or forgotten joke. A kind of cosmic humor, perhaps, in the way a particular sheen on a fruit can suggest a world entirely distinct from the fruit itself, a world of tiny, slow-moving rivers. The way something meant to contain music might, instead, contain a clumsy substitute for ripeness. The air itself, at times, seems to participate in this arrangement, blurring the edges of the earnest and the absurd, as if acknowledging the delicate balance between the two. And then there are the eyes, tiny windows opening onto a consciousness that is just beginning to catalog these very precise, very peculiar, observations.