About the work

The wig is a sudden, artificial note, a piece of something else entirely grafted onto this scene of official indifference. It doesn't belong to the solemn men, nor to the monolithic building, nor even to the bullhorn it adorns. Its cheap synthetic sheen highlights the subtle, organic fatigue in the men’s eyes, the way actual weariness creases a face over decades. There is a thought here about how some objects, through their sheer incongruity, sharpen our perception of the authentic things around them, not by reflecting them, but by jarring against them. The wig, in its false blackness, makes the faded band t-shirt feel more truly lived-in, and the saplings outside more truly anemic. It creates an almost accidental depth, a momentary jolt of the real.