Peregrine Honig
STATEMENT: I came upon twin fawns in the display case of a mom and pop toy and science store in Kansas City, Missouri. It took me two years to win the trust of the shop owner and save the money to buy them. A taxidermist spotted a dead deer by the side of the road. He stopped to properly dispose of the body and realized she was pregnant. He opened her and found near full-term twin fawns, he removed and preserved them. Deer rarely have twins and the taxidermist retained the uterine gesture of their bodies. I built them a light green base and commissioned a glass vitrine. Their prematurity exaggerates the delicacy of an incredibly sweet thing. The points of their hooves, the length of their lashes, the spots of their hides, nose to small nose in an un-cartoonish realism. Viewers' eyes trick them into believing the fawns are breathing. The tragedy of beauty is its transience. The twins live forever in their own demise. They are sleeping beauties. They have been muses since I first saw them. We dress death in lilies and bronze the names of our dead sons on walls. We erect altars of toys and hold candlelight vigils to express hope. My twin fawns sleep endlessly on their soft green pedestal in my studio. The twins never opened their eyes yet their wondrous fatality evokes an acceptable alternative to death.
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STATEMENT: I came upon twin fawns in the display case of a mom and pop toy and science store in Kansas City, Missouri. It took me two years to win the trust of the shop owner and save the money to buy them. A taxidermist spotted a dead deer by the side of the road. He stopped to properly dispose of the body and realized she was pregnant. He opened her and found near full-term twin fawns, he removed and preserved them. Deer rarely have twins and the taxidermist retained the uterine gesture of their bodies. I built them a light green base and commissioned a glass vitrine. Their prematurity exaggerates the delicacy of an incredibly sweet thing. The points of their hooves, the length of their lashes, the spots of their hides, nose to small nose in an un-cartoonish realism. Viewers' eyes trick them into believing the fawns are breathing. The tragedy of beauty is its transience. The twins live forever in their own demise. They are sleeping beauties. They have been muses since I first saw them. We dress death in lilies and bronze the names of our dead sons on walls. We erect altars of toys and hold candlelight vigils to express hope. My twin fawns sleep endlessly on their soft green pedestal in my studio. The twins never opened their eyes yet their wondrous fatality evokes an acceptable alternative to death.
Related LINKS:
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