About the work

The key is for nothing in this room, or any room now. It implies an old lock, a heavy wooden door that has long since splintered or been replaced. Yet, here it is, laid out with the poppy and the eye, on a surface designed to be impervious to time or dirt. There is a strange, quiet insistence in these objects, placed with a kind of solemnity that contradicts their setting. They are not merely forgotten; they are *presented*. A tiny, accidental altar to things that outlast their utility, accumulating a kind of dense, unknowable meaning simply by persisting, by not being thrown away. This is how the discarded, in its very refusal to vanish, begins to suggest a weightier purpose than it ever held.