Ceramics, paint
2025
size variable

Three small, silver-coloured ceramic birds sit on the floor. They’re not any particular species—just the familiar outline of “a bird” the way a child might draw one. They’re gathered together, but not interacting, each one quietly minding its own business.

Above them, in big, loose, handwritten silver letters, the wall reads: Als Langeweile noch ein Beschäftigung war — “When boredom was still an occupation.” The words are in German because this piece first appeared in Germany, but also because, somehow, the phrase feels heavier, slower, in that language.

Like much of my work, it began with noticing. These little birds came from the way I watch public spaces—small, unremarkable presences that seem to belong there without needing to explain themselves. There’s a kind of quiet humor in that—like they’re part of a scene that doesn’t realise it’s being watched.

Paired with the text, the piece drifts between poetry and play, between observation and suggestion. The silver makes the scene glint just enough to catch the eye, but not enough to hold it in place. What happens after that is left open—the work simply waits, letting each viewer decide whether to linger, to smile, or to move on.

Can, resin, paint, wood
2025
40x40x110cm

It’s just a dented cola can—only now it’s gold. It sits on the matte black surface of a small, perfectly square table I built, still letting go of its last drop of some unknown, neutral, white liquid. A tiny, ordinary moment, frozen. 

I keep coming back to things like this. Little details most people walk past without a glance—yet once you really look, they open up. They can be funny, a bit sad, strangely beautiful. This piece is my way of holding onto one of those moments and giving it room to breathe.

The gold is a bit of a game. It’s reverent, but also tongue-in-cheek. It makes me wonder: is the beauty already there, or does it appear when we decide to notice it? At the same time, there’s a quiet nod to how we consume things—how quickly we move from wanting something to discarding it, how the last sip rarely matters as much as the first.

For me, this work lives in that in-between place—part tenderness, part irony—trying to see what’s worth holding onto before it’s gone.