About the work

The world does not unfold evenly. It is forever bunching up, then stretching out, then bunching again somewhere else. This is how the weather works, of course, and how light does, too, but also how memory. You could trace the history of a hand across a field and it would tell you something like this, a stuttering, quickening rhythm. What it does not tell you is what happens at the moment of interruption, when a thing changes its nature and becomes another, or becomes nothing at all. Some things are so complete in their cracking they seem to have waited for it, quietly, like a kind of deep breath, or a settling. The dust motes, though, they always surprise themselves.