About the work

The doormat. It must have been on a sale rack somewhere, a few of them bundled together, destined for hallways and kitchens, not this damp concrete. Someone must have bought it, brought it here, laid it out with a small sense of hope that it would keep things tidier, dryer. It holds the imprint of countless feet, a quiet tally of every entry and exit. It’s too late now to question the choice of dry leaves for a pattern in a place defined by water.