About the work

The antlers are a crown that offers no kingship. Someone has wired them, clumsily, to a helmet – an act of making a thing useful for a purpose it was never meant to serve, or perhaps for no purpose at all. They are heavy, rough, and speak of an animal’s death, yet here they sit, a strange still life beside a human body, on a day too hot to do much of anything. It’s a quiet testament to the way we take fragments of the wild, of the finished, and try to re-contextualize them into our own unending present. This act isn’t about reverence for the animal, not really, but about a restless energy that can’t quite settle for what is, a desire to impose meaning even where it doesn't naturally adhere. The antlers are a symbol of a life that was, now forced into a new, slightly absurd, utility, much like the lingering heat of summer’s end.