Every object is a stolen tale. Somehow, it’s always about stealing and refunding; it’s always about magpies, thieves and storytellers. Every glow turns into a story, with an urgency to put together every piece, crying out for patching, mending, reuniting. Objects sing, recount of dreams, memories and places; they are all born from the discovery of the small things that reveal another reality, like the revelation on spiders’ solitude that hide in the abandoned wasps nests, or the chemical reactions of oxidation that devours and dust metal’s surface, layer after layer, things on things after things untold.
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