About the work

There are things you carry past a threshold and then there are the thresholds themselves. One is a way of moving through, the other a way of holding still. The ski is just… there, not quite forgotten, not quite abandoned. It’s too specific for that. It holds a velocity of its own, a kind of forward momentum that has been suddenly, abruptly arrested, while the door remains, a dark, heavy sentinel, promising only slow, measured gestures. It feels like the air around it has settled, compressed, and the ski, too, has finally given in to the weight of it, a weight that isn’t physical, not entirely. It’s a weight that belongs to stillness, to the quiet accumulation of time in one place.