About the work

Sometimes the air is so thick with what has just happened that it still tastes like it. You can almost chew on it. The way a room holds the memory of a crowd, a celebration, a thousand tiny collisions of sound and light that have only just left. It settles into the floorboards, gathers in the folds of the velvet, clings to the very last edge of day, which is always the deepest blue. The breath you take right after everyone else has held theirs is a different kind of breath. It fills you, not just with oxygen, but with the quiet hum of something that just was.