About the work

There are things that persist beyond any intention, beyond any life they once knew. A landscape, for instance, does not concern itself with its own persistence; it merely is. The early light is not an arrival, only a condition. What happens within that light, though, often carries the faint echo of an original purpose, a fleeting aspiration that has long since unspooled. A whisper might be just air, but it holds the shape of a word for a moment. What falls from the hand, from the back of a car, finds its own form in the wind, a crumpled surrender that still suggests the breath of a past inhabitant. It’s not an ending, not exactly, but a different kind of presence.