What Remains

What interests me is the moment a place stops being specific and becomes structure. I remove colour because colour names things: it tells you the season, the hour, the country. Without it, what remains is weight and direction.

I let the material fall. I don't correct the lines that run down. Whatever is built upright eventually obeys gravity, and I would rather the paint do that itself than describe it.

My spaces are empty of people but not of human presence. Everything in them was made by someone who has gone. I don't read this as loss. I read it as the ordinary duration of things that outlive us.

I work at the edge where recognition begins to fail. That is where the viewer stops asking where they are, and starts remembering.