About the work

That red rubber glove, dropped and forgotten, catches the first hint of sun. It's a small disruption, a sudden vividness in a scene otherwise drained of colour and intent. Its presence feels less like a mistake and more like a signpost, pointing towards the sheer accumulation of daily, necessary things that eventually simply fall away. And then there's the rock, unyielding beneath the boot, a silent counterpoint to all the things that have just been shed or left behind. The kick is not an act of frustration, but of testing, of finding where resistance still lies, where the world pushes back. It is a quiet insistence on presence, a physical punctuation mark in a long, unbroken sentence.