A sea hangs from wooden rods, made entirely of worn jeans and offcuts from earlier works. Its waves are seams, its foam is frayed cotton. Come closer and small boats appear, embroidered into the denim, so small you need a torch to find them. The torch is yours to hold. In the half dark, the light in your hand decides what surfaces and what stays under.
The room is full of sound. Gulls, the creak of rigging, a storm rising, and against it the slow break of water on sand. Underneath, a heartbeat.
Maré(e), soundtrack
This is what plays in the room, continuously, for as long as the work hangs.