Text from Grace Exhibition Space, Brooklyn

She is usually here when I get in. Her method is very odd. She comes one day and covers the window in soap. The sort of old fashioned bar soap that my mother used to use on washing days. She returns the next day and cleans it off. She brings all her own stuff. I suppose she comes on the bus but I'm not sure. She doesn't look like she has a car but really I know nothing about her. It's very awkward really, as I can't remember her name. I was introduced to her once, but that was years ago, now it is too late to ask.

Sometimes I worry about her, especially when I can't see her. So while she is working I usually can't get anything done, I just listen out for the little noises she makes, and I try to make sense of them. I imagine the squeaking is the sound of the soap on the glass, the puffing as she tries to reach the top of the panes, the shuffling alone the sill. The people passing can see her but in this area people do not look up at the windows beyond street level. Occasionally I suspect someone spots her but a woman cleaning windows isn't that remarkable really.

She stops after twenty minutes regardless of the state the windows are in, which means she never gets them completely clean. I don't even know if she gets paid to do this.