Becky Beasley

In Autumn 2012 I tasted ripe persimmon (cachi in Italian -pronounced kaki-) for the first time in Milan. Eaten with a spoon, like runny jam straight out of their skins. The trees in Milan were full to drooping with the heavy fruit; the fallen, splattered like small wet bombs on pavements. I began thinking about autumn as a sculptural proposition for a show, something like the sound of fruit hitting the pavement, like fallen bodies.