About the work

The abacus has shed its purpose here, reduced to a collection of beads and dust. It rests next to the porcelain, a surface so smooth it seems to repel history, where the very act of drying a hand feels like a fresh start. The stones, too, have travelled, not just from the river but from a different kind of calculation, a less precise, more ancient reckoning. What is gained and what is lost when the tools of understanding become simply objects? There is a quiet melancholy in this shift, as if the abacus itself remembers a time when its clatter meant something, when its red beads slid with intention. Now it waits, a relic, in the pristine silence of a new day that has no use for its sums.