About the work

The sheer, unyielding shine of the Oxfords. Not a scuff, not a fleck of mud from the drizzle, even as the asphalt still gives off that damp, almost sweet smell. They refuse to participate in the general atmosphere of languid, disheveled grace. There is a deliberate act of choosing these shoes, polishing them, setting them against the impracticality of the gown, the delicate folly of the terrarium. It’s an assertion of a kind of precise, contained order in the midst of a gentle unraveling. A stubborn insistence on one fixed point of formality, a tiny anchor in the drifting afternoon. Perhaps it’s a way to keep from floating away entirely, this one sharp, unyielding edge.