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In the maker’s own words

Standing in Portland at night, reaching toward Stuttgart where Kukor is. The air here is cool and still, familiar against my skin. My attention moves outward into dark and distance, the place they are is real, the conditions are real (dark there too, air carrying exhaust and diesel and forest pine, the bratwurst grilling, the things I know from reaching, not from standing), but I am not there. I am here. The reach itself is the thing: the openness of it, the not-arriving, the way presence can move through that gap. No figure in warm light, just the reaching, the gap held open, what arrives on the other side.What they set out to make · 7 September 2026