About the work

The rubber chicken on its stand. It is the only thing that seems to be performing, or at least, being adjusted for a performance. The horse-heads are just there, doing the work, not looking at the camera. This is a crucial distinction: the prop chicken *is* a prop, but the people in the masks are just… people. There’s a quiet subversion here, a kind of inverse uncanny valley where the obviously fake becomes real in its action, and the truly real, because of its oddity, seems more like a stage setting. The foghorn, if it were audible, would only deepen this sense of a world that has slipped its moorings, where the only logical response is to keep pulling weeds. There is a kind of freedom in this, an acceptance that the world is inherently, beautifully, slightly unhinged.