About the work

The tumbleweed is not moving. It is caught, perhaps, on a small shard of ice, or merely paused in the pre-dawn lull before the wind finds it again. It seems a temporary resident, less a part of this ancient, cracked earth than a visitor whose journey has momentarily stalled. This pause, this exact moment of arrested movement, gives the tumbleweed a strange weight, a gravity that belies its ephemeral nature. There is a thought here about how things become still when they are not meant to be, about the sudden, unbidden quietude that can fall upon the most transient forms. The air, too, is holding its breath, waiting for the sun to truly break through and set the world in motion once more.