About the work

The ribbon, red as it is, was not part of the plan. This was a day of labor, of hauling, of scraping paint from the wall, and the mortadella was for sustained energy, for refueling. But someone, maybe the man with the meticulous hands, saw the bright red against the cured pink of the meat and decided it was a gift. It was a joke, a flourish for the finish line they’d just crossed. The women, who have been laughing all day, laughed harder at the ribbon. What no one saw, not even the man carefully tying it, was the single, iridescent bubble that detached itself from the scene and drifted away.