About the work

There is no such thing as a new surface. Only a temporary arrangement of atoms, a borrowed sheen. Even the glass, barely hours old, is already holding dust, the invisible particulate of everything that has ever been. And the red, a color so insistent, so demanding of attention, has already begun its patient surrender to the air, to the light, to the very notion of 'having been loved'. It is a different kind of memory than the one we carry, less a narrative and more a simple fact of erosion. The purple, pushing its way through, seems to have understood this from the very beginning. Its ambition is not to last, but simply to declare itself in the briefest possible window.