There is a bucket of concrete angels in Ledelle Moe’s Woodstock studio. More than one bucket of madonna-like figures, studded with quartz and grit from the Cederberg, half concrete, half earth. The world of the things we think we know – the seemingly solid – is memorialised in the pieces. The angels are concrete, the concrete is fog. Concrete stretched to the limits of itself, and the limits of what the artist can reach and hold together – astral parking lot, surface-of-the-moon concrete. “Concrete is this ubiquitous material,” elaborates Moe. “It is everywhere. So to take it and to push it around like clay, it refuses to be fussy. There is a conversation with its refusal to do things perfectly.”

In monuments to the collapse of monuments, and in an ongoing homage to the residues that remain, Moe works between times. Between the 700-million-year-old rocks of the Cederberg and the time it takes for the fog to evaporate from the surface of the Atlantic – between the very ancient and already-vanishing. The bridge we find between is made of concrete. And the concrete is never the same grey.The congregations of small figures and faces are like coordinates on a map and like birds in a murmuration, moving together, forever going home, not needing an endpoint. The artist describes the hand-held figures as findings. Less concerned with the precarity of shattered monuments, they are solid, and they are going to last. This is somehow, without esoteric language, a homage, more than anything. Forming the smaller congregations, Moe’s process involves digging a hole in the earth, mixing soil with concrete and water, and burying it for half a day, then digging it up and carving it with any sharp object at hand – it can be a thorn or a nail or butter knife. It is a process of getting very physically close to the actual earth, and the creatures in it, and the sediments, and the millions of years that have made them.