From there, the work unfolds into a surreal world in which the boundaries between freedom and captivity become increasingly difficult to locate. Birds, cages and displaced figures inhabit a reality where familiar symbols no longer behave as expected. What appears playful at first gradually becomes uncertain.

The work is less interested in captivity itself than in the moment we stop recognizing it.

We build structures around our lives — social conventions, expectations, routines and systems that offer comfort, identity and belonging. Some protect us. Some restrict us. Most do both. Over time, the boundaries we once noticed can become so familiar that they simply become part of the landscape.

This ambiguity runs throughout The Vögelhaus. Freedom and confinement are not presented as opposites, but as states that can quietly transform into one another. A cage can provide safety. An open door does not guarantee escape. And someone who has adapted perfectly to their surroundings may no longer feel trapped at all.

The surreal imagery deliberately refuses to resolve these contradictions. Instead, it leaves the viewer somewhere between humour and unease, invited to decide where the boundaries really are — and whether they exist outside the work as well.

Maybe freedom is not the absence of cages. Maybe it begins with noticing them.