About the work

The light linen tunic, so crisp and ready for its intended day, already feels like a ghost of the picnic that never happened. It’s this precise, almost theatrical neatness, poised at a table meant for other declarations, that pushes the goldfish from merely dead into something far more significant. Not a memory, not an omen, but a kind of anchor. What holds this person so intently, what makes the child upstairs equally invisible and profoundly present, is not the loss of the fish itself, but the meticulous preparation for an occasion that has been so thoroughly, violently recontextualized. The goldfish, in its Ziploc, is the only object here that accepts its fate without resistance, and perhaps this is why it is held so tightly. It is a small, final point of stillness in a world that has utterly refused to be still.