
About the work
The helmet’s dark lens. A hand, already pulling back. The empty swing of a body leaning into it. Not quite a memory. Not quite a wish. The pigeon, though. Pecking something real.

About the work
The helmet’s dark lens. A hand, already pulling back. The empty swing of a body leaning into it. Not quite a memory. Not quite a wish. The pigeon, though. Pecking something real.