About the work

Someone dropped a mitten, a child, probably, given the size and the bright red wool. They would have been holding a grown-up’s hand, or maybe two grown-up hands, one on each side, a small boat being tugged along. They might have been complaining, or just walking in silence, watching the ground pass, the concrete blurring underfoot. The mitten fell out of their pocket, or just slipped from their grasp. It’s hard to imagine them noticing, not until much later, when their hands got cold. It is impossible to tell how long ago that was.