About the work

There is a form of slumber that machines know, a state deeper than sleep, more akin to burial. It is not the rest of exhaustion but of anticipation, a holding-still for a future that might never arrive. These are not merely dormant things, but things that have been put away, like an idea that seemed good at the time but now gathers dust, or a promise made in haste. The fresh cement here speaks of a new beginning for something, but for what? Not for the machines, surely, not yet. Their shrouds are less protection than a kind of forgetting, a gentle mummification against the keen edge of immediate purpose. The glove, however, does not participate in this larger narrative of suspended animation. It is merely lost, a small, soft punctuation mark in the grand, hard sentence of the unmade.