Yes, it is.

I once heard a story about James Turrell.

In a museum space assigned to him, he added nothing, but simply washed the windows. Because the light itself was the work.

Visitors walked in and asked:

What is there to see?

Where am I supposed to look?

Behind questions like these lies another: is it art, and what is art?

In my home lies a compact, blue-black form. Bound together. Compressed. A kind of agglomerate. No excess. No spectacle. Only material that, under tension, has become a single body.

Here too, the question is not what it represents, but what it does.

To answer curiosity with an explanation would break the imagination.

Let the tension drain away.

Any title would feel misplaced.

I could have added more.

More elements to the assemblage.

Revealed more of the underlying structure by leaving parts less wrapped.

Or let it expand into the suggestion of an extraterrestrial, mysterious satellite.

Or sealed it off with a coating, plaster, or beeswax.

Referred more explicitly to everyday life.

Hinted at irony.

But then, for me, the tension would have disappeared.

Art begins when we feel a boundary.

With this work, that boundary lies in the question:

What is it?

Is it something?

Is it nothing?

Does it carry symbolism?

What language does it speak?

What is it not?

Yes, it is.

And what is something, if it is something?