About the work

There is a specific kind of waiting that saps the body from the inside, leaving it a hollowed-out form. The posture of the figure closest to us, chin resting heavily on chest, suggests a surrender not to sleep, but to the sheer inertia of the moment. The air around them must be thick with the day’s accumulated grime, a residue clinging to clothes and skin, much like the rust that powders the cars visible through the window. It makes you wonder how long one can exist in this suspended state, unmoving, yet propelled forward by a machine that demands nothing of you but your presence. This is not the pause before action, but the dead weight of continuation, a kind of living stasis. It is the waiting not for something to begin, but for something, anything, to end.