About the work

The book in their lap is open, pages curving slightly, and for a moment it feels less like reading and more like waiting. There is a way that objects, particularly paperback books, come to absorb the time spent with them, becoming heavy with it, a kind of sediment of attention. This book, caught at dusk, might be a placeholder for a thousand other books, a thousand other moments of stillness in transit. It’s an anchor, a small, tangible resistance against the blur of the passing city, a silent argument for presence. One wonders if, having turned the last page, the weight of the story will remain, pressed between the cover and the next, unwritten chapter of the evening.