A nude figure stands in a carved, desolate landscape… a place shaped by extraction, absence, and the long aftermath of what has been taken. Her head has been replaced by a vintage television broadcasting a glowing graveyard: rows of crosses lit by candles. A ready-made narrative of loss, inherited through screens rather than experience.

And yet… from the body, something unmistakably real breaks through.

Yellow daffodils and white lilies bloom from her pelvis, her hand, and the ground beneath her feet. Flowers of rebirth, return, and stubborn persistence. Honey uses them as a counter-myth to the graveyard imagery… a reminder that feminine creation refuses to obey cultural scripts about purity, death, or martyrdom.

In the distance, a vintage faucet pours a thin stream of water into the earth while a vast, churning ocean sits just behind it. The contrast is absurd and human: surrounded by an endless, untamed source, we still rely on narrow, controlled spigots to keep life going. We choose the manageable flow over the overwhelming abundance. Renewal, we are taught, must come through sanctioned channels.

But the flowers don’t care. They push through anyway.

In Bloom becomes a visual hymn to regeneration:
a mind haunted by collective memory,
a land shaped by decay,
a body defiantly alive.

Where the screen shows a cemetery, the body grows a garden.
And where the world insists on scarcity, Honey shows us an ocean waiting.