About the work

There are certain places where the idea of an inside feels like a lie. The air itself has worn down all the soft parts of language, the gentle curves of thinking. What is left is a kind of exposed nerve, not raw, but honed by constant friction. To be present in such a place is to confront the limits of your own boundaries, the ways in which you are not a fixed point, but rather a momentary resistance against forces that dwarf you. And then, there is the question of what constitutes a surface in a world made of nothing but.