About the work

That kite is not meant to be there, or rather, it is not of this place. The heather yields, the bog cotton insists, but the orange delta — it strains. It feels like the moorland itself is trying to pull it back, to claim it, to make it part of the fabric of this particular wildness. But the string holds, a thin thread of human will against the vastness. It's a reminder of how we graft our bright, artificial desires onto the indifferent world, and how sometimes, for a moment, they stick. The kite does not care about the moor, nor the moor about the kite. It simply *is*, a persistent, colorful defiance.