About the work

The earth remembers its last cup. Not its own thirst, but the offering. The ground takes it slowly, a spreading stain that darkens what was already dark. A kind of absorption that is not quite drinking, but a deep, slow receiving. Perhaps the wind is the only one truly tasting the air here, a cold sharpness that scrapes against the surface of things. The objects remain, still, even as the wind carries off whatever it can. They hold their shape against an expanse that has no shape at all, only the persistent memory of what has been.