About the work

The world holds its breath, sometimes. Not from any grand design, but from the simple mechanical friction of a wheel, the sudden strike of flint against steel. Things just stop, for a moment, waiting for the next thing to happen. Even the air itself seems to know this, holding its residual moisture close, refusing to entirely dissipate, as if it too were waiting for some signal to finally clear. It’s a very particular kind of stasis, this, a quiet hum before a small combustion, before the slow, inevitable exhale. A readiness, perhaps, for the next thing to break, or to begin.