About the work

The fig, almost black, sinks slightly into the wood, as if the ancient reel has finally found something it was always meant to hold. Its skin, still intact, suggests a resistance to the gravity of the market, a fragile sphere against the coarseness of its perch. This single fruit, somehow, seems to contain the promise of an unobserved decay, a sweetness waiting to burst or to simply soften into itself. There is a slowness here, a private moment unfolding despite the rush of the street, where something very old meets something very ephemeral. It makes you wonder how much life passes by without ever quite touching the core of things.