Painting flowers is the curse of the avant-garde. The exhibition Ice Saints relates an extreme situation of this sort, and imagines that when we are gone, only flowers will remain. Fulfilling the long-held dream of a garden in the gallery, we invite visitors to a meadow where wildflowers mingle with weeds, day with night, art with the memory of art. Plants—painted, photographed, or freely sprouting from worn-out shoes—are accompanied here by images from political history. Plants are a metaphor for passing time, migration and uprooting, and an omen of inevitable change and withering.
