Symbiosis has its types, but the fig and wasp? That mutualism feels like a desperate bargain, not a harmony. It disturbs me, this giving over of one’s entire form for another’s purpose. In my canvases, even the deep shadows hold light, refusing to be completely consumed. To see the fig become a coffin for the wasp, and the wasp a mere tool for the fig… it reminds me of the mill, where we were all just parts in a machine, our own colours irrelevant.
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