About the work

There are objects that refuse to belong, not out of defiance, but because they have been misrouted. A parcel delivered to the wrong house, a name misspoken in a moment of recognition, a song played in the wrong key. This is a kind of gentle friction, a thing trying to find its proper slot in the world. It’s not a question of beauty, or its lack, but of the internal logic of a thing. A thing that knows where it belongs, even if no one else does. The dust itself has a kind of belonging here, a settled expectation. And then something else enters. Something with a different logic entirely, carried and placed, and suddenly the dust is no longer alone in its knowing.