About the work

There are certain things that settle. Dust on a shelf, a building in a landscape, a thought in a mind that has no further use for it. The pigeon, too, has settled, a punctuation mark on something that seems to have always been there, not just since it was made, but since it was imagined. A hum of electricity holds it all, a quiet insistence that everything is exactly where it should be, even if it feels like it shouldn't. The folded shirts understand this. They are in their place. They will be in another place. And then another.