About the work

Sometimes it is only when things are over that they truly begin. Not the ending of a life, perhaps, but the ending of a purpose, the draining of an initial impetus. A table, now, is merely a table. The light that falls across it is just light. What was once the center of an intention — a meal, a conversation, a particular arrangement of people and objects — has now settled into a different kind of being. The way the shell sits there, without even the courtesy of a pearl, is a kind of permanence. Not because it will last forever, but because its temporariness has ceased to be urgent. It is simply there. It has shed its need to be consumed, to be part of an order. It has become a detail of a different story, one that is not even trying to be told.