About the work

The world is full of things that promise more than they deliver. A sign, a label, a smell that drifts just beyond reach. But sometimes, what is delivered is simply what it is, and the promise was ours alone. The blue isn’t vibrant, the folds are just gravity doing its work, and whatever is underneath, well, it’s just something under a tarp. The long line, though, that’s a promise, kept or not, for each of those people. Their attention is on a different kind of waiting, a different kind of blue. But the pigeon, it has no interest in promises, only the immediate, the small dark flecks on the ground, indistinguishable from the grime. It is already exactly where it is going.