About the work

There is a precise moment when something becomes truly itself. Not just a thing, but *that* thing. A door stops being a sheet of wood and is suddenly the door to *that* house. Or a particular kind of quiet settles, the one that tells you something just ended, not just the noise, but the happening. It’s a trick of light, sometimes, that finds the grain in a surface, and suddenly every imperfection is an argument for existence. The sound of cards, worn smooth but still catching, carries its own history, a language for what was and what will simply continue to be.