I fill a skin of stockings or fabric with mixed remnants and wring it with both hands, the way you would twist a wet mop. I keep twisting until the surface stretches and the contents press against it, and I stop just before it tears. I am not trying to reach a particular shape. What interests me is the point at which the material is close to giving way and still holds. The resulting form is then cast in bronze. Permanence is not the point. Bronze keeps the last posture of organic matter that would otherwise decay. The holes that pierce the surface are marks left by my hands. The title refers to that moment, when the form could still go either way.