Untitled (time passes and nothing happens)

it was a trick of the light that lasted for only a moment
                                                           that the gum tree’s leaves appeared to glitter
  against the shadow of the mountain behind
                                       lit by the last rays of the sun
                                                                                       before it slid below the horizon

At first glance, perhaps, there is nothing there but a collection of what migh be leaves gathered along the line of the windows.

At a second glance they are leaves, though made of fine porcelain.

Looking closely, they are porcelain, but aren’t leaves. They seem to be the cast of fingerprints. Paper thin, and translucent. As when a child, bored at a dinner party, begins to dip their fingers in the hot wax of a candle, peeling it off when it is cool enough.

They were made in this spirit, each an act of absent minded creation. Noticing the surroundings, there seems to be the same porcelain clay stuffed into the gaps between the walls, and used instead of filler in the nail holes left by previous exhibitions.

One of the windows has been laboriously frosted with sandpaper, and filters soft light onto the wall opposite.

The porcelain is unfired, and shrinks and cracks as it dries, falling out of holes in the walls, mixing with the porcelain leaves on the floor, themselves crumbling to dust, as not every person notices them.

The work is made of making, and then unmade. Over the course of its display the raw porcelain, helped by the inherent instabilities in the material, will crack and crumble to dust. The intentions of the artist are negated, and the work is completed by the actions of the viewer, their noticing or not noticing, finding meaning or finding nothing.