About the work

The things you hold, not quite knowing why you still hold them, are often the heaviest. Not in weight. In the memory of their weight. Sometimes it’s a book you meant to finish, sometimes a promise, sometimes a line. A line that stretches out beyond the reach of the hand, past the bend in the wind, into something less visible, but still there. The grey is good for this kind of holding, for the faint tremor in the wrist that only you can feel. What is given back is never quite what was given. This too is a kind of exchange.