Się zjada

Every evening blood-red lips are smacked – the highlight of a monotonous work routine in reliable solitude. Day out: microwaved meat. Day in: the banal horror of a meat industry production line. Fatten, gut, cut to pieces and wrap conveniently. But what if one’s personified conscience turns up, stares out of the next piece of meat or tempts one to an evening of wine-drinking? A grotesque in delicate black and white lines with shrill touches of colour.
(Nadja Rademacher)