A giant old female holds a stick on which a strange jay is placed. The bird carries in its beak a tiny dented alarm clock, neutral mirror of transience, miniaturized theater of human obsessions.
On the stick hangs a rickety balance that compares the weight of a human heart to a sack full of money, a sort of overturned psychostasis that replaces the Maat feather with a sense of possession, so sneaky and rooted today.
It is the ‘having' that prevails over ‘being', to which we should instead aspire intimately.
It is a symbolic work. Suggestions ranging from the Egyptian Book of the Dead to Aeschylus, from the experiments of the early twentieth century on the weight of the soul to Iñárritu, from the iconographies of the Archangel Michael to Paul Auster.
Or, simply, a reflection from which we cannot avoid: in the end, even though we are small, we are accomplices of others' suffering, of a collapsing planet, of discrimination and inequality, of innocent deaths.
Hope, resignation? I would prefer to say that there is an alternative and that it is not too late to change.