Locus amoenus is the garden of our dreams, a fresh sun-kissed green, a safe place,
and the potted plant is its closest relative. Unharmed by cold seasons, the living-room plant prospers
all year round. Or does it? Sanne's photographs visualize the tiny, pinching doubt that comes along
with the beauty, the luring uncanny of our dream, the potential memento mori of all that is living
that we try so hard to ignore. If we look at the photographs, the light green paint that covers the withered
leaves of the potted plants strikes the eye in most of the pictures and is almost undetectable,
rather a possibility than a fact, in others. Is this leave still naturally green, or a make-believe healthy look?
The leaves we can identify most certainly as dead and covered in green paint cannot ease our discomfort,
but make our eye skeptical to any other leave as well: soon all of them look suspiciously green and bear
the thread of future withering and death. We cannot see the plant for what it is anymore: it is both
still prospering and already dead at the same time. As if that would not shatter our dreams of the locus amoenus
already, the evergreen plant is located outside of space and time. Rather displaced than located,
we see the plants in a bright white void; no way leads to this little piece of promised eternity, no root can
connect our reality with this green dream, the earth we walk is not the same earth that sustains the plant.
The locus amoenus is unmasked as a farce, an illusory impossibility. However, if the series shows one thing,
then our will to cling on to our dreams, our choice to rather make believe than stop believing,
to see the chance for life where decay is obvious.
written by Sophie Kulik