Hugger Mugger unfolds in the quiet spaces behind closed doors.
These are not scenes of spectacle, but of something subtler. A pause. A tension. A sense that something has just happened, or is about to. The work lingers in that in-between state where meaning is unstable and identity feels uncertain.
The figures are fabric dolls. Inanimate, yet strangely loaded. Through gesture, positioning and proximity, they begin to suggest human behaviours without ever fully becoming human. They occupy domestic interiors that feel familiar but slightly off. Rooms drawn from memory. Spaces that echo the kinds of homes I grew up in, reconstructed and reimagined as digital dioramas.
There is no clear narrative. Instead, the images invite speculation. We are placed as observers, looking in but never fully understanding what we are seeing. The work leans into that discomfort. The instinct to make sense of things that resist explanation.
Growing up, I was often told not to get involved in other people’s business. That you never really know what happens behind closed doors. That idea has stayed with me. Hugger Mugger sits in that space. It draws on a long-standing fascination with the tension between normality and unease, between humour and something darker.
The more constructed these worlds become, the more they seem to slip from control. Small details accumulate. Gestures take on weight. The search for order begins to reveal its own fractures.
What emerges is not a fixed idea of identity, but something fluid. Fragmented. Performed. Particularly in moments of isolation, when the structures that usually define us fall away.
These works do not offer answers. They circle around a question:
