About the work

There are days when the light itself seems to be wearing down, fraying at the edges of things, almost visible in the air. This is the kind of light that holds dust still, illuminating the small, unintended histories that accumulate without intention. You can almost feel the texture of time in the way surfaces surrender their smoothness, giving way to the friction of daily life. It’s a quiet record, a slow conversation between wood and whatever touched it – not a deliberate narrative, but the simple fact of presence and absence, a lingering trace.