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.