About the work

Sometimes you mistake a thing’s posture for its actual state. How it sits there, heavy and resolved, suggesting it always had the power to do so. But what if it’s merely tired, or spent? What if that reaching is a slow, involuntary collapse into altitude? Every surface holds the weather it has endured, not just the weather that arrives tomorrow. The smell of hot asphalt is itself an exhaustion, something that has been pressed and refined into its final, patient form, ready to receive. The circling above, then, is not surveying, but rather measuring distance: how far one must travel to finally disappear.