About the work

The longest days always arrive with their own kind of forgetting. Not a true blank slate, but a layer of dust over what was, an almost willful refusal to recall the contours of the morning. There’s a particular light for this, a kind of bruised purple that promises nothing more than a slow fading, the exhaustion of everything having happened. It’s the color of a roof at the end of its many seasons, or the faint impression of a petunia that has given all its bloom. Even the most prepared things, the things carefully folded and set aside for future use, can seem caught in this moment, waiting to be remembered by a purpose that has not yet come. They stand in for us, perhaps.