About the work

The small things are always in danger of being lost. A thimble on a finger, a stray thought, the precise shade of grey that gathers just before the lights go out. There is a way the world keeps moving, indifferent to the meticulous repair of what is already nearly gone. Something is always humming somewhere, an engine, a server, the blood in one's own ears, a constant dull thrum that speaks of other places, other needs. It does not matter what specific time it is, or what the weather is doing elsewhere; the immediate moment is always asking for a certain kind of attention, a quiet diligence. To mend is to resist, not the end, but the speed of it.