About the work

This is not about the rain, or the child, or the pigeon. This is about the precision of the dice, the way they must be perfectly aligned despite everything else. The felt is worn, the paint chipped, but the dice—they are a small, impossible assertion of order. It's a kind of stubbornness, isn't it? To insist on this tiny perfection, knowing it changes nothing, fixes nothing. You are the one who understands why this matters.