About the work

The toothpick, in particular, suggests something has just finished, or is about to. It's an object of digestion, or of anticipation, a small, woody interruption in the rhythm of the day. It’s not a cigarette or a pen; it doesn't offer the sharp punctuation of a decision, but rather the quiet continuation of a thought. The whole scene feels like this, a pause in a larger mechanism, a minor adjustment rather than a major shift. What if every moment is really just a toothpick moment, an inflection point so subtle we barely register its presence? This is how time passes, not in grand declarations, but in the slow, persistent chew of the ordinary. And then, the toothpick is gone.