About the work

There is no such thing as a perfect perimeter. Everything has its edges, and then beyond those edges, something else begins. You build a wall, but then there's the air above it, the soil beneath it, and the small spider working its way up a forgotten seam. Even the most careful preparations, the most deliberate barriers, still contain within them the memory of their own eventual failure, or at least, their porosity. The world outside, the part you thought you had kept at bay, is always finding its way back in, sometimes as a faint hum, sometimes as a sliver of light, sometimes as a sudden, sharp fracture right where you least expected it.