About the work

The flamingo, a splash of unnatural pink, seems almost a glitch in the scene. It grounds the dune, the distant resort, the melting snow into a single impossible moment. One expects a certain kind of permanence from sand, a patient, slow unfolding, but here it has become a fleeting stage for something that cannot logically coexist. The rust streaks on what might be an abandoned prop only add to this feeling of a set about to be struck, leaving behind only the indifferent landscape. This isn't just about things being out of place, but about time itself collapsing, making a mockery of any single, stable reality. It’s as if the world, exhausted by coherence, has simply stopped caring what it presents.