About the work

We are always forgetting something. Not a thing, not an object, but a category of light, a particular color of day. It is often the color of this hour, just before the mercury lamps commit. They hum in advance, gathering, like a crowd outside a theater, before the doors open and the true performance of night begins. What goes on inside those closed doors? And how does it feel, to stand among them, an audience to the gloaming, waiting for something to be revealed, or, perhaps, to be forgotten again?