About the work

The dust motes are caught in light that is itself caught, filtering through a grate from somewhere unseen. This is not the light of day, or even of a well-lit interior, but something wrestled into being, made to perform its illumination. And the watering can, new and empty, seems to stand in for all the *things* that are supposed to happen here, all the watering of ideas or growth, now just a vessel. Perhaps the humidity, so thick it seems to press down on the scene, is not just weather but a palpable weight of expectation. It makes one wonder if all the effort and the stifling atmosphere create something truly profound, or just make everything a little harder to breathe. The humming of the vacuum, just beyond reach, is the counter-narrative of everyday maintenance that continues, indifferent.