About the work

There is a feeling that only certain kinds of exhaustion have. Not the body’s weariness, but the end of a particular current. The way a game, once fervent, simply unwinds, not because it’s over, but because its fuel has run out. The objects, then, are not abandoned, but simply released. The soil, still giving up its day, has its own slow exhalation. The bucket, on its side, is just part of that release now, not awaiting anything, but absorbing what’s left of the day’s heat and the earth’s last effort to hold onto moisture.