About the work

The party hat is a crumpled crown, an absurd claim to celebration in a place that has forgotten joy. It carries the faint scent of ozone and something vaguely chemical, not quite plastic, as if the air itself has grown tired and begun to fray. One wonders about the person who wore it, a child perhaps, now grown, or perhaps still a child but changed, standing on this forgotten landing. The hat knows too much, or not enough – it suggests a memory that is both specific and utterly unmoored, like a single word plucked from a long-lost sentence. There is a sense of obligation here, of an act performed for its own sake, rather than for any inherent delight. The hat is not celebrating; it is merely enduring.