About the work

The inner tube is almost comically large, a bright circle of synthetic joy in a scene already bursting with it. Its resistance to being deflated or moved, a struggle that is perhaps more performative than real, makes me think of all the things we carry with us, inflated by habit or expectation, long after their immediate use has passed. And that pirate cutlass, its paint flaking: it's a forgotten prop from some earlier game, now just part of the general accumulation, a small, blunt history. We are constantly re-encountering these objects, these inherited weights, within the newness of our own moments. They don't quite fit, but they are there. Perhaps the pigeon understands this, perched on the fishbowl with a kind of casual acceptance.