About the work

The dryer vent is a kind of proxy, a stand-in for the real phone that must be somewhere inside the plush white fur, hidden from view. To hold it like this, to lean against the crates, suggests a moment of rest, a deliberate pause in the performance of joy. The child, oblivious, moves through their own small, sugary world, a transient pleasure against the carefully constructed permanence of the bear. Perhaps the vent, with its hollow corrugations, is a more honest conduit than any actual conversation could be in this bright, fleeting scene. It’s a quiet joke, a small rebellion against the expectation of constant exuberance. What communication could possibly be taking place through such a crude, repurposed object, if not the silent acknowledgment of something absurd?