About the work

There are places where time works differently, not in hours or days, but in the slow giving up of things. A plastic chair yields its sharp edges to the heat of a body, a floor covering lets go of its bond. This surrender isn’t quick; it’s a process, a gradual unfastening that you feel more than see, like the slow sag of an old curtain. It happens in the air, too, in the way a day can stretch without really moving, a kind of suspension where the dust motes just hang, indifferent to the bright, insistent messages on a screen. There’s a certain weight to this stillness, a sense of having arrived somewhere and stayed, a quiet acknowledgement of the endless present.