You see an offering and an invitation to harvest, shining and floating in front of you. Take all you want. You take cuts of what you desire and hold in your hand a soft and sumptuous collection of flowers, all for you. You take them from the space from which you cut, into the light of day, to find a wilted, decaying and exhausted bunch close to the end of its life. All that effort doesn’t seem worth it. 

The fabric is exhausted. It has been burned around the edges, subjected to intense heat during pressing. In finding this form, each flower has already begun to deteriorate. 

These flowers undergo violence in order to reach their collective form, only to be deconstructed piece by piece. With simple instructions and a tool, audience members mutilate the artwork until it is no longer. The harvesting of the whole, bit by bit, with little encouragement, turns those that participate in this work from an audience into an aggressive force. 

This is a work of torturous metamorphosis. It is a happening whose outcome is both an achievement and a ritualistic undoing.

You return over the coming days to find less and less of what drew you here and wonder who of those around you was also part of this harvest, who else cut and took and destroyed. Who else came here? Who else has done the things you have done?