About the work

The bright red of the kite is out of place. It suggests a child’s forgotten toy, or a burst of color in a landscape otherwise drained of it by the coming dusk. But it is not a toy, and it is not a burst; it is just a kite, its line slack, its flight over. This quiet descent, this folding in on itself against the grey sky, feels like a choice, a small surrender. There is a weight to things that have served their purpose but remain, a faint memory of air beneath their wings, now just a crumpled shape. This is how objects become repositories of spent effort, not with drama, but with a simple, settling quiet.