Still Life

In recent wanderings, I’ve come to appreciate a certain style of mannequin. As this series suggests, they often appear worn or battered, expressing a sense of despair or regret, of having a personal story. Whether plunked down on bustling sidewalks, or unceremoniously dropped from vans for Saturday markets, each held my attention. Certain mannequins looked through me, holding vacant stares, while others appeared reflective, ready to break from their grim existence, free of shrink wrap and hangers. Some, it appeared, wanted to regain their dignity, maybe get their damaged bodies fixed.