Viola and the family tree (the ghost I used to be), drawing on paper, 29,7×42 cm (A3)
To be a part of different settings, to be entwined into history, mix blood and find a place in the pattern- if only for a short time. Still we are but ghosts in the twilight of the fall and new flowers will grow upon the bones of our fathers. The knowledge that the crosses and stones only grow in numbers in the cemetery collides with the inability to grasp the inflexibility of death.
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