About the work

The world is often arranged for us, or we arrange ourselves into its logic. It is rare to find a moment where the world feels less arranged, less like it knows what it is doing. Here, objects meet not in their intended functions, but in a kind of relaxed drift. Things have settled, not so much in a heap, as in a patient acknowledgment of each other's presence. There is no particular urgency to their being here, only a soft, heavy agreement to occupy the same space for a while. The fruit will not roll further. The flowers will not be swept away. The string, too, has found its resting place, content to lie beside what it can no longer pull.