About the work

There is a certain way the world holds its breath, just before it gives up. Not a gasp, but a slow, almost imperceptible release, where the effort of holding becomes too much. It’s not about breaking, not really. It’s about the underlying thing, the thing that was always there, finally showing itself, not as an intruder, but as the enduring truth. Like a surface flaking away to reveal the patient iron beneath, not protesting its exposure, but simply being. The way the sky can sometimes participate in this, lending a kind of indifferent softness to the whole affair. It’s a quiet consent, a concession to the simple fact of time.