About the work

The things we collect around ourselves are rarely the things we intend to live with forever. We are, by nature, disposers. But the objects themselves seem to resist, to hold out. They settle into their new homes with a kind of stubbornness, as if the inertia of their past functions is still at play. A forklift, for example, is not really meant to cease lifting. It seems to remember the weight it once bore, the constant turning, the grimed hands on its controls. The sudden stillness is almost a betrayal. And yet, here it is, bathed in a light that seems entirely out of place, a final amber before the brighter, harsher illumination takes over. It’s as if the day is being asked to end, and the night to begin, on its terms, not ours.