About the work

The way things acquire a sheen through sheer proximity to a life lived. Not polished, not cared for in the sense of preservation, but worn smooth, becoming one with the friction of being. A certain kind of leash, for example, becomes less about binding and more about a continuous line that is also a history. It doesn't tell you how many walks, but you can feel them. Even the tiny dog has this quality, a kind of furious, concentrated insistence. It’s all of a piece with the pavement, the faint, persistent smell of something unidentifiable in the air, the way the light catches the dust. The world hums with these small, unyielding certainties.