Ophelia, 2018

Steel and stainless steel basin, water filled to the line until the LED lights die out (50,000 hours), stinging nettles, acrylic, silicone, and laser-etched foam

48 x 24 x 30"

A narcissistic fountain of death that could maybe quench the thirst of a city horse if it is desperate, as long as it has a strong gut. When you feed her grains her body rejects it; the beautiful mare is injured from the race. As she begins to gallop, the rust seeps into your pores and purifies them with its acidic dye.  A Sunday afternoon is spent pulling out new white hairs, dying a mustache back to blonde. I am one of a kind, I am told.

 You live in a city where the employees of a chemical company work in the midsts of delicate sculptures that represent The Four Sons of Aymon and their magical horse, Bayard. Drift glass was once a piece of trash but now invites you into the illusion that it is a part of the natural world.


Ophelia drowning:


There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;

When down her weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;

Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.

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