About the work

Every journey holds the ghost of its undoing. Not the wreck, not the wrong turn, but the slow, unspooling doubt that perhaps the destination isn’t the destination after all. Sometimes it’s the way the light falls on an old map, illuminating only the paths you didn't take. Sometimes it's the weight of an instrument in your hand, suddenly heavy, no longer an extension of breath but a dense object, a thing. And sometimes, it’s the strange, almost-unseen figure gliding by, outside the frame you’ve constructed for yourself, making a different kind of progress entirely. The air itself seems to thicken then, in the quiet hours, holding everything in a suspended question.