Maya El Nahal


When we lived on the Outer Hebrides I grew used to meeting death, to seeing cycles of life play out through bloom and body, especially through late Winter/early Spring when the storms are the worst. It was often challenging to see, fallen birds, drowned seals, stranded dolphins, but in a way it felt special too, a privilege to witness those stories after a life spent in a more sanitised existence.

I haven’t seen a single dead body since we moved here, what a strange thing to complain about. Even the Autumn leaves were swept from the streets. There is a phoneline that you ring if you see a dead animal, and someone from the council comes along to remove it, I wonder if scavengers get a chance to feed before that happens. Apparently the council stores them in a facility out of town and then periodically incinerates everything; this from a council worker I emailed to ask some questions. I’m not sure what this all means for an art practice that seems so often to start with death.

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