A room of hay; lying in great piles, mixed with glue and water, a slurry of brown, pseudo-organic sludge plastered from wall to floor. Deep in a primeval past, a cow moos out into the distance. The cycle of sowing, tilling, caretaking, harvest, rest is the only beat that remains of a deep, continuous past. Aside; an enclosure in which one stands at bay, in the impasse between the harvest of end and the beginning of yet another tomorrow. Then, choice, possibility and the calculation of yield. Tilling the soil of origin is an exercise in vain — a resounding landmark to a listless memory transmogrified into the present. In a white room set to sound of a rum-tinged buzz of conversation, a curator politely shouts at a woman. Beseeching her to not smoke a cigarette in the presence of hay, lest the work and its house begin to burn. The quaint past is tragic, comic. A simple picture, snatched from its site of origin is now simply here amongst other things, as silent as the great pages ensconced within the enclosure bordered by hay. Right now it breathes only slightly, if at all.