About the work

Some things are simply happening, and there is no one present to register the fact. A room empties, a bell rings unheard, a book falls open to a new page in the dark. It is enough for something to be in the world. The dust motes will drift whether they are seen or not. The flower will perform its slow collapse. Even the unmarred surfaces of the wood, or the perfect corners of the stapler box, carry within them the promise of their own eventual, unobserved wear.