A drying riverbed, end of August:
a small puddle held by clay fallen out of slow-moving water
a dried up leaf
the just-right angle of the sun

It is here, in the unrelenting heat of the summer, that I find a tiny moment to enter.

An impossible sort of golden edge lines the radius of the leaf’s shadow, reflected onto the bottom of the fragile clay pool. I would go on to attempt to recreate it, but it would always fail. There is something about being in a certain place in time, bearing witness to an alchemy one can never fully understand. A slippery stacking of time.
Seeing what cannot be touched.
Sensing what is present, but remains unseen.

This body of work responds to the site is is located on, once just a couple blocks from the Rio Grande floodplain.Through engineered light, water, and the setting sun, I imagine holes in the walls and ground as sites for stories to emerge; a fleeting look into what may have been and what might be.