About the work

The light on the kerb is a flat, unconcerned grey, the kind that promises nothing but more grey. And then the ball, a small, perfect galaxy of pinpricks, casts its scattered points across the dashboard, across the worn vinyl seats. This single point of movement, a slow revolution, does not fight the darkness but rather acknowledges its vastness, a tiny, defiant sparkle against an indifferent, sleeping street. It is a private joy, or perhaps a private act of forgetting, spun into the quiet hours when the world seems to have settled into its unyielding patterns. The reflection on the glass, almost imperceptible, carries the faintest echo of a different kind of light, a light that belongs to dance, to noise, to something far from this curb. It is a moment where the grand and the trivial, the cosmic and the contained, are held in the same, silent turning.