The pieces are all here: the draped cloth, the obedient arrangement of fruit, flower, the slightly macabre animal, the drop of noir melancholy. But recognition here is unstable. Everything behaves nearly correctly. The shapes are familiar, almost domestic. But the textures betray them. They have quietly mutated towards the wrong skin, the wrong memory.

The green frames the fiction. The pink draws the eye to what misleads it. There is no violence here, just subtle erosion — of certainty, of category, of the real.

The stillness moves — not with life, but with the memory of it. A twitch, a shift, a slow turn that returns to something almost the same. But not quite. The vase completes its circle, yet the flowers are rearranged. You didn’t see it happen — but you know it did. You could argue the still life is no longer still. But you, my dear observer — you are.