About

Within the uncertain hours and dimensions of a twilight stage, familiar, forgettable objects assemble – or disassemble – in varying states of predicament and vitality, in delicious disarrays of misplaced punchlines. Artworks function like tragicomic tableaus discovered under the bed and in the closet, hiding behind the door, frozen under the streetlamp. These are still-lifes of a sort, comprising lifeless unicorns, fabricated flowers, goofy grins hiding sharp teeth, piquant tigers, sausages and stalks, and an assortment of tubes of non-descript function, all rendered in sweet hues and …