There is something unsettling in the idea that rest only becomes possible through rupture. The hard shoulder sits at the edge of movement — a strip of asphalt where stopping is permitted, but only when something has already gone wrong. Everything around it continues to rush past.

I kept returning to that edge, and to the sense that it is becoming harder to recognise when rest is needed, or even how to enter it. Slowing down begins to feel like a deviation, something that has to be justified. The pace becomes internalised — it moves through the body, shaping attention, expectation, and the way time is felt.

The work began to form through time spent beneath highway bridges crossing swamp landscapes in Finland. I found these spaces becoming a kind of metaphor—one that felt increasingly close to the present condition: the pressure to keep moving forward, and at the same time the need to find some sense of calmness within that movement, especially in a moment marked by ongoing destruction.

Above, structures carry continuous flow. Beneath them, the ground behaves differently. In the swamp, that logic loosens. The ground gives way, absorbs weight, slows each step. Water sits close to the surface. Things sink, gather, reappear.

Movement becomes uncertain, and in that uncertainty, something else opens—a need to move in balance, slowly, attentively, neither too fast nor too slow. It also brings forward the question of how we relate to these environments. The swamp cannot be hurried or overridden; it resists that kind of pace. It asks for a different form of attention—one that listens, adapts, and recognises its role as a sustaining system, rather than something to be drained or built over.

The work moves within that threshold — between what passes overhead and what persists below. Not offering resolution, but staying with that question: how to pause, how to remain, and how to find other ways of resting within systems that resist it.