The world seems to have ended, leaving only fragments behind. The functions of the reality we know no longer apply here.

We see beds, grates, pipes, lamps. They are still standing, but no longer serving any purpose. Within this space of switched-off function lives an artist. For her, art has stopped being a statement addressed to an audience. It becomes, instead, a form of her own existence — because she simply cannot do otherwise: it is the last function still running, when everything else has already shut down.

Inside this story is a Kafkaesque transformation — the moment a person stops being easily legible. She is at once maker, exhibit, almost animal. External wire structures fuse with the body, following the logic of Rebecca Horn, whose bodies extend into external, prosthetic systems.

Around her — three witnesses, three guides. A cat that no longer needs a home. A snail, carrying its house on its back. A snake, shedding its skin as a sign of renewal. Each offers its own logic of survival, and it is from them that she learns.