About the work

Someone’s mother had bought that kite for them. A birthday present, probably – a brightly coloured thing, maybe a superhero, something that suggested flight and freedom. They’d brought it up here, to the concrete roof, for a special occasion. And then the wind, a sudden gust, ripped it from their hand, or perhaps the string simply frayed against the rough concrete. The kite soared away, lost to the indifferent night, but the string, a stubborn tether to earth, caught on the jagged edge of the garage door. It’s been there ever since, a delicate, almost invisible line, vibrating in every breeze, but it’s hard to say what it remembers.