Juice Box

For many years now I have been leaving juice boxes in public places. Small cardboard containers filled with eco-friendly paint, set down and left. Then I walk away.

Someone finds one. They jump on it. Paint explodes across concrete and bitumen in a burst of colour and kinetic energy. I come back and document what is left. 

I am genuinely uncertain who the artist is in this exchange. The stranger who jumped brought something unplanned and irreplaceable. Their impulse, their weight, their willingness to do something spontaneous and slightly absurd in a public place. 

Each work is site specific, connected to a place that holds personal meaning.

I think about nostalgia a great deal. We are living in a world that is constantly reaching backward. Every festival setlist is essentially a love letter to the nineties. The juice box is a deliberate trigger for that feeling. Small, familiar, loaded with memory. But nostalgia isn't something to be embarrassed about. I think of it as a life affirming response to the weight of contemporary life. A way of remembering that joy is not complicated.

Sometimes people just need a little permission to feel it.