Objects, memory, and physical space

Objects hold rooms. A bowl left on a table long enough begins to describe the light of that table. The practice is curious about that slow exchange between a thing and the place that keeps it.

Memory here is physical, not biographical. It is the stain, the worn edge, the shadow that returns every afternoon to the same corner.

The works are made to be lived near. They do not ask to be explained every time someone enters. They ask to be recognized, the way a familiar object is recognized, by weight and by place.