A plate of warm, over-saturated ravioli sits in the foreground, glowing like a TV dinner ad from a world that promised safety, convenience, and a gentle kind of American denial. The hand lifting the fork is lacquered, feminine, perfectly composed… an icon of mid-century domestic calm.

Outside the window, a tank lies gutted in a field of rubble.

At the very top of the window frame, a thin sliver of illusion paper breaks the scene’s realism… a quiet signal that something isn’t what it seems. Honey’s use of illusion paper is always an invitation to pay attention. Even in a piece about denial, she plants a reminder that the narrative we’re being shown, or the narrative we show ourselves, is incomplete.

The soft domestic staging becomes a theater for the absurdity of living through troubled times while clinging to small comforts. The brutal and the banal sit directly alongside one another, separated only by glass and the will to pretend everything is fine.

We consume, we cope, we carry on… even as the world outside the window burns.
Honey isn’t judging it. She’s showing it. And in the showing, she’s asking:
What does it mean to nourish ourselves when everything feels like it’s coming apart?