In a space where gravity still dictates, three containers breathe a dark liquid. It is neither water nor oil: it is memory flowing, tissue remembering. From the iron legs—rigid, industrial supports—prostheses emerge that do not seek to complete a body, but to strain it, to interrogate it. They cling to fragments of glass and organic matter as if trying to pin down the unstable, to hold what inevitably mutates.
The hoses, like tentacles or vessels, connect, drain, traverse. The liquid runs not only through the aquariums but also through frames suspended from the ceiling, where the silicone within throbs like skin in waiting, like a membrane that once covered something that no longer exists.
Banksia follicles embed themselves as remnants of an alternate ecosystem, fossil capsules still in dialogue with the soft, the mechanical, the post-organic.
