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The paintings purportedly spreads a protective canopy of objects over both the past and the present. Meticulous, professional, impeccable paintings depict daily objects, appearing aloof with their clarity of texture and aesthetic mien.
This is a song of praise for the staging of the bourgeois home, it would seem. But a sense of annihilation breaks through every polished pigment, oozing from the obsessive documentation. Morag talks about the objects that serve as anchor and support in the attempt to come to terms with estrangement and persecutory anxiety; overbearing feelings compressed and embedded into the glossy materiality. Another Ahraon Shabtai poem is hiding underneath this (non) domestic poem: “Shit, Death.”
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