About the work

That head, lying there on the floor, heavy and plush. It’s what you become when you stop holding up the idea of yourself. Not even in the sense of a mask, but a container that got too big and unwieldy. The soft, matted fur, the plastic eyes staring at nothing, while the actual face, your face, cools in the circulating air. There’s a faint, sweet smell of something gone wrong. Not decay, not exactly, but something overripe, something that needed to be eaten a long time ago.