About the work

The pressed creases of the trousers are an act of faith, a small defiance against the slow erasure of days. Someone ironed those, not yesterday, not even this morning, but at some point when the future still held the promise of an ordered presentation. Now, under the indifferent hum, that effort is just a memory, clinging to fabric. There's a particular kind of exhaustion that isn’t from exertion, but from the simple, grinding fact of existing in systems not made for ease. It is a exhaustion that seeps into the bones, past the carefully chosen shirt, and settles like dust on the waiting. The diagram on the wall, clinical and clear, offers a map of the body, but no chart for this particular terrain of the spirit. Perhaps the dignity of the dress shirt is the last line of defense against being utterly undone by what comes next.