About the work

It’s not just that the bird is dead; it’s that it’s whole. It would make more sense if it were in pieces, mangled by the other things: the stubbed cigarette, the crumpled foil, the grit. But it’s not. It’s perfect. It feels like the world is saying, *this is the thing you saved*, and you just haven't figured out why yet. There is no explanation for why it’s the only thing that made it.