Ceramics, charred wood, distressed photocopies, gold lustre

The Dragon’s Egg only hatches in the fire breathed over it by the mother. After the drenched flames leaves a stinking charred nest high above Battersea, London. In the charred nest blooms a wise old owl with burnt fingers and petrified down gathering and protecting sacred scenes under her wings.

I know she is terrified and that is how she grew her crown of spikes- they arose from her red raw throat crystallizing into a beautiful coating of armour. I don’t know if she will ever leave this nest, let’s hope she does.

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