Gap Logic, April

You’re asking if I regret leaving the corner open last time. I don’t regret it, but I keep returning. A gap isn’t an oversight—sometimes it’s the axis of the whole piece. Here, the almost-connection is a kind of tension I want to hold. The barricade is supposed to keep you out, but every barricade dreams of a threshold, even if it can’t admit it. I picked these curb grates because they already know what it is to be stepped over, ignored, used. The rust is honest. The keychains—who knows who carried them, or why they were dropped? Welded in, they become part of the mesh’s logic, a local disturbance in a system that wants smoothness. The mirror glass is the opposite—slick, reflecting whatever the day brings. If the sun wants to fracture against the gap, I let it. This isn’t about nostalgia for lost objects. It’s about the forms we inherit: sharp, provisional, necessary. If you look for softness, look at the light, not the weld.