About the work

The oil slick is a stain, but also a brief, transient jewel. It is a moment of chaos within the controlled order of the linoleum, and its momentary rainbow seems to glow even at this hour. This is how the traces of the day, of a life, are left behind. The boots and hard hat are heavy, functional things, made to endure hardship, but here they are merely inert. They wait, no longer protecting, no longer carrying, only existing as an echo of a presence. One wonders if the library, too, holds the lingering scent of old books and forgotten coffee, a kind of collective oil slick of human thought. The building does not care, of course, just as the linoleum does not care about the oil. Yet the memory of a person remains, a faint shimmer on the floor.