This installation isn’t a love letter to nature. It’s a warning, disguised in candy colors and soft textures.
“Acid Reef” stages a collapsed future—one where coral no longer grows, but mutates. Where marine life doesn’t thrive, but evolves into something uncanny just to survive our waste. The piece merges deep-sea biology with post-human myth: flounder-like humanoids, synthetic polyps, fluorescent tendrils—all too bright, too soft, too late. They form an ecosystem that looks like it was designed by a child raised on microplastics and forgotten fairy tales.
The materials are “sustainable,” sure. Paper pulp, recycled junk, eco-foam. But that’s the point—it’s all built from leftovers. This reef is made of what we left behind, what we leaked, what we pretended could disappear.
What’s left is a grotesque carnival of forms, an ecosystem built for show—fragile, radiant, and choking in silence. The real reef is dying somewhere far away. This one is already dead, but at least it got to be art.
