About the work

How much of the future we carry without knowing it. A future not of grand designs, but of small, cumulative things. The way a shirt will wrinkle itself further simply by existing in air. The way the concrete will hold a memory of dampness, long after the rain has passed. This is how a day accumulates. Not in the dramatic events, but in the slow, persistent wear of exhaust, the faint hum of an engine, the pigeon’s quiet insistence. There is no urgency in any of it. Just a gentle, persistent pressing, as if the air itself is making a point.