About the work

Every Sunday is a kind of echo, a faded copy of the first one, or the last one, or the one you haven't yet quite managed to invent. The air on these days carries a particular weight, sometimes like a promise, sometimes like a burden. It settles on surfaces, on the shoulders of whatever happens to be standing still enough to receive it. And if there is a river, or what used to be a river, that air will find a way to make itself known there, too. Not as a current, necessarily, but as a kind of stillness that has taken root. A quiet resignation, perhaps, or a deep memory.