About the work

The boat was dragged here, perhaps, by a father trying to salvage something. Maybe it had been a gift to a son who never used it, or maybe it was bought with grand plans that dissolved like sugar in hot tea. The overpass feels too new, too clean, to belong to the same story as the cracked hull, but the boat was here first, undoubtedly. The balloon, though, is the real anomaly, a perfect sphere of primary color against the muted greens and grays, and it feels placed – not by a child, but by someone trying to say something about all this, about the wind, the pavement, and the boat that will never touch water again.