About the work

Sometimes the future is just a line moving across the surface of a thing that is not moving at all. It’s not an event, not a breakthrough, but the slow, almost imperceptible shift of one fact into another. The light above hums like that, a perpetual suggestion of something about to happen, or about to fail. You learn to live with the hum. You learn that maps are often wrong, and that the world keeps changing its edges even when you’re not looking. The atlas, left open, is a silent record of this, a ghost of geographies that once were. And then there are things that seem to transcend all that, things that arrive from somewhere else entirely, oblivious to the hum or the shifting lines, a sudden punctuation in a sentence you thought you knew by heart.