About the work

There are mornings that have never ended. They stretch out, unspooling their specific light, until they become a kind of weather, a climate for all the days that follow. The first light, here, is not an event, but a condition. It touches things with a tentative, almost apologetic color. This kind of light seems to ask if it’s okay to be here, to fall on the things it finds. It asks this of the rough earth, of the metal that rusts just beyond the frame, of the wet surface that has just been made. What it asks of the things that move, or that hold things that move, is a different kind of question, one that might not have an answer.