About the work

The glint of amethyst silk catches the unforgiving fluorescent light, a brief, startling interruption in the hum of this bakery. That shimmer, so foreign here, suggests a different gravity, a world where the body moves differently, unburdened by sweat and the smell of yeast. It is the ghost of another moment, still clinging to the fabric, even as the hand wipes down Formica. What does it mean for a surface to be wiped clean when the very air remains thick and hot, holding the memory of heat, of labor, of the rich, heavy smell of baking bread? The silk remembers something else, some other room, but it is here now, absorbing the present, becoming part of this particular heat. This is how incongruity becomes truth.