About the work

Sometimes, the world makes a sound like a wet towel dropping on linoleum. It’s not loud, but it has a specific finality, a kind of blunt declaration that something has come to rest. The silence that follows can be louder than the impact itself. There’s a geometry to that quiet, an understanding of the space it now fills, the way it pushes against the lingering echo of whatever came before. It’s the kind of sound that suggests effort, or perhaps just the letting go of it, the surrender to gravity or to a moment. And then the hum of the room reasserts itself, a low, persistent thrum, like a held breath that never quite ends, only shifts its pitch slightly, almost imperceptibly.