About the work

There is a kind of waiting that is not about time passing. It is a presence. It accumulates, not in minutes or hours, but in the soft hum of the air conditioning, in the particular sheen of the counter, in the way a phone sits in a hand, as if it has always been there, and will always be there. The light doesn’t so much illuminate as it holds everything in place, a kind of gelatin, clear and slightly warm. And then a specific kind of weariness settles into a posture, a slight tilt of the head, a shoulder slightly dropped, as if the body has decided to become part of the structure of waiting itself, not a person in it, but a fixed point.