About the work

There is a weight to things that have been seen by everyone, by no one, by the wrong one, by all the ones who don't care now. It's a different gravity, one that doesn't pull down so much as it pulls apart, slowly. The wood gives up. The light that finds its way in isn't a gift, not anymore. It’s just another agent, illuminating the surrender, the slow, particulate exhalation of structure into air. The leaves outside are doing their own work, a clean sweep that only emphasizes the other kind of leaving. Something shifts, something settles, and the silence just becomes a wider space for more of it to happen.