Spoils
A shopping bag lies open on the ground, but like the magic porridge pot in the fairytale, there is far too much stuff spilling out than ever could have been contained in it. The subject matter echoes the traditions of a Dutch 17th century still life, with all its abundance and pathos.
All spoils of fortune are eventually just spoiled: out of sight, out of mind. And yet… butterflies dance about, daisies edge the heap. Laid out in all its discarded bounty, perhaps the exquisite transience of life can be felt. The pain of loss is merely a thread in an intricate tapestry.