About the work

The ice cube holds the whole scene in a kind of suspension. It is a thing of pure, fleeting order among so much chaotic detail, still solid in a room that feels both drowned and bone-dry. What does it cool, what does it warm? The hand holding it, perhaps, a moment of focus in the aftermath of something unbidden and wet. It is not an answer, not a solution, but a small, deliberate act against the sprawling, unchosen narratives that have just unfolded. The cube will melt, of course, adding its own tiny, inevitable contribution to the general dissolution, but for now, it is a point of resistance. This is how we sometimes hold on: with a single, clear intention, even as everything else slips into incoherence around us.