I return to these images because they operate before explanation. They ask to be inhabited, not decoded.

A couch—an object engineered for rest, intimacy, duration—appears within a ruptured architecture. The walls have been erased. The boundary between interior and exterior has collapsed. The sky presses in where shelter once existed. And yet the couch remains, intact, upright, illuminated as if by familiar domestic light. The body recognizes it immediately. The invitation precedes reason.

This is where the work begins to destabilize.

At first, the scene reads as plausible, even documentary. Only with time does its quiet impossibility surface. A force capable of destroying structure would not preserve softness. The couch should not survive. That delayed recognition is essential. The surrealism here is not theatrical; it is embedded. It reveals itself slowly, mirroring the way trauma, grief, and dislocation are often processed—first normalized, then questioned, finally understood.

The couch becomes a psychological residue. A remnant of care. A memory of inhabitation. It holds the imprint of bodies no longer present, performing its function in the absence of those who gave it meaning. Comfort persists without recipients. Purpose lingers after context has failed.

This tension—between readiness and abandonment, offering and refusal—runs through my sculptural practice as well. I am drawn to objects that exist in states of suspended function: materials held in balance, weight without motion, systems paused mid-gesture. These forms are not inert. They remember. They retain intention the way the psyche retains attachment long after the conditions for attachment have dissolved.

The couch has not failed. It has remained faithful to its design. The environment has failed it. That reversal feels deeply human. We are often taught to read collapse as personal deficiency, when it is frequently contextual erosion—systems no longer capable of holding what was built with care.

There is an emotional restraint in these images that matters to me. Nothing dramatizes its own displacement. Nothing performs loss. The object simply waits, continuing to offer itself in a world that no longer guarantees safety or return. That persistence is not heroic. It is quiet, awkward, and unresolved.

I do not begin with language when I make work. I begin with recognition. Meaning arrives later, through looking, through sitting, through conversation. When I can locate myself inside the work—emotionally, not symbolically—I know the gesture is true. When the work reveals me back to myself rather than declaring its intent, it earns its presence.

These images exist in that space. Between interior and exterior. Between function and futility. Between comfort and exposure. They ask what remains of intimacy when the structures that once protected it are gone—and whether the impulse to offer care can survive without assurance that it will be received.

That question continues to sit with me.