About the work

There are things that happen, and then there are things that simply *are*. The spin of a machine, the careful hinge of a hand, the light's slow departure. Each is a kind of happening, but some carry the weight of an inevitability, a fixed point in the larger turning. The lint trap will gather its filaments. The fabric will surrender to its fold. What happens in between is a negotiation with time, with the persistent demands of the present moment. A coin, wedged just so, holds its own stubborn history. It is neither waiting nor arriving, but merely occupying the space of its impediment, a small, blunt fact in the face of all the moving parts. The air, too, has its own slow current. It carries the scent of things used and things new, a quiet confluence of textures that brush against each other without ever truly meeting.