I work with botanical fragments, technological remnants and found materials drawn from natural and synthetic landscapes alike. In my assemblages, these elements become relics of lost systems, fashion codes and survival strategies, marking belonging and signalling distinction while crossing the soft borders between ecology and technology. Botanical forms masquerade as accessories, while technological inventions slip into the role of camouflage and mutate into protective skins.
Sometimes, this logic leads to the creation of the absurd: for example, I constructed a firmament out of salamis — a constellation that smells faintly of pepper and smoke — after a slice of chorizo was mistaken for an image of Proxima Centauri. An old oil paint box belonging to my grandfather became an improvised taxonomy in which the pigments and tools formed their own classification system. They were photographed as if they had arranged themselves overnight. Here, order is less a rule than an instinct.
In this expanded ecosystem, technology and botany coexist: once derided by Adolf Loos as an architectural crime, plant ornaments return as agents of quiet resistance. Houseplants, those patient green companions, redefine nature as an interior concept, bringing forests into corners, jungles onto windowsills and climate zones into rooms. My work moves within this entanglement where artefacts and organisms, facts and fictions share the same space and feed each other's myths.