Olive Trees

In Olive Trees, there is a dialogue — between the ancient and the mortal, between rootedness and transience. These trees stand in for memory. Their knotted trunks, gnarled branches, dappled light, and the way the wind seems to have carved them tell of time in its patient, persistent unfolding. There is solitude, but also communion: the trees are individuals, yet they exist in relation — to one another, to the land, to the sky. The imagery moves us away from the human-scale to something more elemental: bark, root, sky, shadow. Shades of gold and grey, light and shadow, reveal hidden textures. Sometimes the olive tree is vulnerable — alone in an open field, battered by wind, scarred by old wounds — but also resilient: still standing, still reaching, still breathing through leaves. Ultimately, Olive Trees is less about the olive tree itself than about what trees can teach us: endurance, the beauty of imperfection, connection to place, and the silent stories carried in the folds of bark. The show asks us to slow down, to witness, to listen.