About the work

Sometimes, the world seems to arrange itself for no other reason than to observe. Not to be observed, but to perform its own slow, unfolding act for an unseen audience it already knows is there. It doesn’t demand attention, it simply proceeds, with the quiet confidence of something that has always existed, and will continue to. A stray bit of paint peels, revealing another layer, older, but still blue. The bicycle path gleams, wet, as if the air itself just had its face washed. And something very white, almost absurdly so, stands at the edge of all this, as if it too has taken its place in the quiet procession.