PANACEA

Panacea. 2017. 18k gold-plated brass, pain relief and laxative medication. 

I grew up in a family of atheist doctors. I remember my grandmother saying “Advil is the only God I worship”. 

To me, medicine was this great mystical thing; one minute you were sick, and the next minute after popping a few pills, or downing some of that sharp children’s tylenol you were cured. It was like a miracle; more than religion ever healed me.

The bombastic gold-plating and piercing of the band paired with the sickly sweet glow of the “gems” are the first thing you see. On closer inspection, these gems are printed with their codes and brands such as “Advil”. They masquerade and celebrate their identities; not solely trying to mimic precious gems. 

Panacea, a crown condensed with candied colour, speaks to my disenchantment with my catholic country. I offer an alternative God to worship, medicine, whilst acknowledging that this in itself is ridiculous — it can become just as toxic as catholicism. Full of glowing cabochon-like pills this crown represents the seductive grip of ritual and addiction, the propaganda and power behind “healing”. Seven colour-concentrated crosses halo the head for each day of the week, for a world that takes pills like communion, and where pharmacies are identified by their own cross. 

The crown mocks its medieval counter-parts, in which stones were believed to have healing powers, however mine offer physical results. It also mocks the gothic idea that to bring in light is to bring in God, so there is also an homage to stained glass. The “medieval” style choice is also is a direct linguistic link to my views on christianity and its practices, with laxatives embedded into some settings for good measure. Through modern medicine we have learned to cheat death and pain, the psychological incubators for faith. It is also frightening to consider the fact that these pills are designed to look so beautiful, as propaganda for consumption. Arguably, this is the same way stained glass, adorned reliquaries and Bernini’s altarpieces work to seduce viewers into a different type of consumption — one that is more of an insidious persuasion — a hypnotic anesthetic for the anxieties of life. An illusion — stemmed from the belief of what is attractive is more trustworthy, or more enticing to believe. 

Photography by Rob Chron