My ominous ceramic creatures evoke both the melancholy of a vanishing miracle and the magic of childhood memories. At the center are fireflies, whose light creates a connection for just a moment before it fades away.

Fireflies carry a continuous flame on their bodies. They ignite their own flesh to send Morse code-like signals to find one another in the darkness of the night and to mate. A language of sex, love and desire. They appear briefly, only to vanish again immediately. Like cruising bodies, they move through nocturnal landscapes, guided by fleeting glances, gestures, and light signals.

However, the increasing light pollution erases the darkness that fireflies need for communication. At the same time, the glow of smartphones reduces the anonymous mystery of cruising to profiles and filtered images.

Fireflies are also survivors. Insects have weathered countless planetary catastrophes. In their delicate light lies a mourning for what is disappearing: ecologies, ways of life, and forms of intimacy. At the same time, their glow is a form of persistance: a signal that continues to be transmitted despite everything.