In this work, three weights of reddish brown hold in a single register. From far, one. From close, iron gives way to brass, and the brass admits a green so quiet it borders on thought. Like the high pastures, it gives much by giving almost nothing.
From a few meters away, Itamonte reads as one register of brown. Up close, the iron gives way to small breaths of brass, and the brass admits a green so quiet it borders on a thought. Like the high pastures the town is named for, the work gives a great deal by giving almost nothing.
I took nothing from the world. I only gave it time.