They stand in the space, in a garden of impenetrable shadow and hard light, fatal to the charm exuded by the life of flowers, with discretely encrusted diamonds and strings or rings or chains or crowns of thick pearls enclosing their swelling and stretching bodies, tense and tight in sublime hardening and contempt, their wood brittle and splitting, ducking and stiffening at the same time, riddled with hostile metallic spikes and stakes that testify to their infinite humility, as if despotic power had withdrawn into the unique pattern of adornment, into the exhibition of an empty fortress or the motionless dance of monuments that no longer demand a ministry of respect but seek the dumb and blind gaze of devotion, at the limit where they turn into ornaments for the first time, their accomplishment lying in their inability to touch themselves and hence create signification.
— Alexander García Düttmann
