About the work

The remote control car, with its factory-fresh sheen, finds itself nestled in grass still wet with the pre-dawn mist. It is the only object here that seems to anticipate a future, a game, a trajectory. Everything else – the crumpled kite, the soft thud of a fall, the startled bird – speaks of either accidents or endings, of moments stalled. There is a curious stillness, an almost solemn respect, in the hand resting near the car, as if acknowledging this small, hopeful machine. This small object, unmarred and poised, briefly holds the scattered weight of all these other, less certain things. It almost suggests that the future, too, can be just another thing unpacked from a box, pristine and waiting, even as the morning is still sorting out its earliest, damp light.