It’s the orange glove, otherwise I might have skipped the scene, as just repeating previous work. But there’s this disembodied skin again - cast against the fragments stone and grit, lying prone, limp and deflated. It had purpose, briefly, visceral and present, now it’s passing through. The black plastic is encroaching, soon to suffocate everything that has been rendered.
Passage and place. Briefly.
Now limp like a dead game bird from a flemish painting.