What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats…
TS Eliot, The Wasteland’

All images are broken, because the world itself is broken. The world is a beautiful, broken machine, and from the throbbing ruins I scavenge for my pathetic iconography. Every material entity, whether that means a naked body or a can of soup, is an empty vessel. Only by tearing images apart can I touch the void that’s left when we disappear. The flags I wave are the flags I draw; empty, ruined flags.

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