About the work

The bus is out of time, which is to say, out of purpose. Its slow rust marks a different kind of life than the crisp gravel and the cardinal, bright as a freshly struck match. The park is tended, a system of renewal, but the bus is past that, its yellow now a memory. It wasn’t abandoned, not exactly; it was simply left, a slow fade not into decay, but into irrelevance. This is how things end, not with a sudden stop, but by becoming a background, a fixture that no longer functions as intended. The cardinal lands on it, perhaps, or flits past it, registering it as just another large, inert thing. And that is the finality: to be noticed, but not understood.