Plastic Flora is a satire to our unexplained obsession: something so mundane, yet also very humane.
Vanity—a tawdry exercise of self-adoration, yet in the concrete is a sacrilege to sanctifying one’s Self.
A superficial beauty, a shallow seduction; these are qualities that the cracked silver shells of Plastic Flora represent and also whatnot. It obeserves the favorite anorganic synthetic possible: the resin plastic, a copycat to earth’s natural delicacies. As light as it weighs, its fumes invites us to question our own delights.
Combining it with silver and brass, Plastic Flora juxtaposes what it means to be beautiful. Why are we so fascinated with insincerity, inanity, an object so unnatural yet bizarrely gratifying? Does fascination to futile stature of beauty represent our inaptitude Self, or can’t we be blamed for such irrational guilty pleasures?
Such beauty is not to be taken solemny... Or is it?