what does it mean for a tree to grow old ?
As a result of intensive and unsustainable forestry, habitats have become fragmented, carbon sinks have weakened and up to three quarters of forest habitat types have become endangered. Insects and birds are disappearing together with old growth forests, which are replaced by evenly aged, single-species stands where only a limited number of organisms can survive. Despite this ongoing ecocide, people continue to seek refuge in these fragmented landscapes. Yet as simplified, managed forests replace complex ecosystems, our ability to recognize what truly thrives begins to diminish and our collective memory of what a forest can be slowly fades.
what does it mean for a tree to grow old ? is a site-specific sound installation that translates the DNA sequences of bracket fungi into music. Scattered across Kuusiluoto, each sequence is activated by the visitor's proximity to locations where bracket fungi has been recorded.
Using bracket fungi as indicators of forest health and biodiversity, the work invites listeners to experience ecological complexity through sound. As melodies overlap and intertwine, they reveal the living relationships sustained by old and slowly dying trees, asking what can be heard when we begin to listen to a forest as an ecosystem rather than a collection of trees.
site-specific sound installation,
zine and live performance
2026
[full live recording soon available on soundcloud]
fried birds of paradise
[letter: 1750.9.18]
Under the lingering shadow of a lost paradise,
an overwhelming fertility lingers in the horizon
—it’s calling for me.
Calling to be uprooted and transported across oceans.
To be renamed and organized in houses made of glass.
To be controlled and possessed.
It is calling for me to be stolen away
and to be put under my wings of protection.
I must get my hands on the promised coconut,
so that fried birds of paradise could finally fly into my mouth when I open it.
Fried birds of paradise is a specific installation which explores the colonial histories of European botanical gardens. The work was produced as the final project for the Experimental Sculpture course at Art School MAA, facilitated by Elina Nissinen and Oskari Ruuska, and was exhibited at the final group show Suspension in Formalin held at the Winter Garden Helsinki (16–25 May 2026).
image transfers and essay on plywood
2026
13 goats standing guard around my bed
What remains when the thread breaks?
My work begins with a memory i never truly owned - an image of a child playing in a field with goats - woven in red and white beads. These colors are traditionally used in Karelian weaving traditions, symbolizing protection and continuity. For me, they also hold a paradox. They are mine by ancestry, yet distant through cultural erasure.
If rendered traditionally with red thread on white linen, the image would be perfectly recognizable. But beads resist such clarity. In their shimmer and separation fragmentation becomes visible, as if glimpsed through the fog of memory or across generations.
The work was exhibited at the pit protects a single seed, i broke my tooth on the stone of a fruit, a group exhibition held at Museum of Impossible Forms from 15-25.01.2026 exhibiting works of the second year students of Art School Maa.
plastic beads, mending thread, wood
2026
saaren kehto / nesting
This performance was documented on the 1st of May between 4:18 and 5:02 a.m. in Suomenlinna, Helsinki. At this hour, no ferries have yet begun travelling to the island, and most people are still fast asleep. Yet the island is already waking as the first rays of the rising sun reach the shore, illuminating the subtle overcast sky. This quiet moment offers non-human species a brief window in which to carry out their own activities in relative peace, before having to adapt to the constant disturbances brought by the flow of tourists.
In the mornings leading up to the filming, I spent time observing the beach. The same species, and sometimes the same individuals, appeared in the same places, day after day, as if following a shared schedule.
The oystercatchers were the first to gather on the rocks, performing what seemed like a daily dance. In formation, they ran from one end of the beach to the other, repeating the same call. One bird appeared to initiate the ritual, starting the chant before the others joined in. Each time they reached the other end of the beach, the lead seemed to pass to another bird. They continued for eight to twelve rounds before scattering and going about their individual routines. Then the crows gathered in the tree, seemingly catching up and preparing for the day ahead. Around 4:50 a.m., an otter slipped into the water for its morning swim.
Watching these recurring encounters, I began to wonder whether the shore was governed by a kind of shared understanding: an unspoken rota through which its inhabitants took turns, organising their activities around one another.
In this performance, I build a cradle, or a nest, from branches found on the beach. Meanwhile, others are carrying out their own rituals, following rhythms that I can observe but cannot fully understand.
The work was presented as a video installation in I Thought the Earth Remembered Me, organised by Art School MAA and the Pixelache Festival, August 25–31, 2025.
performance and videoinstallation (25:05)
2025