About the work

The world keeps finding ways to make itself known, even when you wish it would simply desist. Not in the grand, sweeping gestures of history, but in the insistent, small abrasions of air against skin, the quiet complaint of an axle. There are moments when the only thing left to do is to hold still, to let the current pass over, even when it carries the detritus of everything that was once whole. A singular bright spot can sometimes draw the eye, not because it offers a contrast, but because it feels like a slight, an oversight. As if the machine of the everyday, so thorough in its consumption, has missed one small, buoyant thing.