Altered rivers, managed forests, fenced fields, planted ranges, browsed flowers, extracted soils, depleted seas, crumbling valeys, drained lakes, toxic puddles, wilding conifers, concrete veins, and eroding coasts. New Zealand is a fantasy. A formation upon faults, it is under the weight of a nation the ground will not hold.

At the centre of this space lies the remnants of a ritual. Its remains rearranged into these islands where a nation has burrowed. Its twisted and charred form canʼt escape the grid it was made within. Only its spirit is lifted up and spread into the room.

Entering through the west facing window, the sun stretches the shadows long, white Entering through the west facing window, the sun stretches the shadows long, white and pale. The winter light heats the wax and releases its scent. The smell of home, holiday, childhood, and grief fils the space. Corrupted by this fragrance, one becomes carrier. Inhaling the works and tasting the images themselves. With each breath the work enters the body. The scent holds memory to be taken from the gallery and spread throughout the city. On one’s breath, on one’s clothes, and on one’s mind.

The flag burns because the fire was lit by us.

The paintings are blurry because the image is not real. The paintings are blurry because the image is not real.

The fungi arrive when the past seeps through the cracks.

By the time you leave, colony collapse disorder follows you home.

Out of the Scene, Into the Fever [Activated] Credits: Videographer – Ted Whitaker; Assistant – Ryder Smith