Artist/Gallery notes
She casts no reflection. Her existence in doubt. Dust collects on the plastic flowers. No real flower would survive in this hiss of air-conditioned gasses. She has withered. Grown old. Is the collection of dancing coloured houses a picture? An illusion? Are there real flowers in those gardens? Does the gap in the trees lead to an escape to youth, beauty and love? Enough of fantasy, she must return to the mundane reality of the sounds and scenes of far off lands, the travels of word and mind that are part of exploring the Web. Her spider hand points and clicks, and through the glass a new reality appears. She casts no reflection.