In A Flower for the Viewer, a child stands amid a scatter of wild blossoms, arm lifted in a simple, almost ceremonial offering. Above, a row of surveillance cameras arcs overhead like a mechanical halo, their presence both absurd and quietly menacing. The composition is spare, yet charged. The innocence of the gesture set against the cold geometry of control. What unfolds is less confrontation than contrast: a small, human act of tenderness persisting beneath the weight of constant observation.