About the work

The stick is an anchor, or perhaps an antenna. It is not for balance, not for warding off wolves, but for something else entirely, a kind of ceremonial weight in the hand. The fresh batteries in the remote suggest a future, a home yet to be tuned into, while the tattered robe belongs to a past that, for all its wear, refuses to be shed. There is a sense of ritual here, not just in the run, but in the specific incongruity of the elements. It makes you wonder how much of what we carry, visible or not, is truly necessary for the journey ahead, and how much is simply part of the spell we cast upon ourselves. The whole scene feels like a single, drawn-out breath before an act of profound and uncertain transformation.