Scobyskin

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Marga Kaur

working across nature, urban spaces, and the unseen —
 tracing slow processes, soft resistance and ecological memory.


obrashmargaret@gmail.com

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SCOBY skin is a translucent membrane — soft, alien, alive. It grows in silence, sealing a space between transformation and decay. It has always their pattern and colour. 

These membranes are incredibly flexible — but only when filled.
Without water, they become thin, brittle, and fragile.
How often do we, as humans, find ourselves dried out — emotionally, physically — in need of protection, or something like an extra skin?
The membrane as a threshold, a barrier, a quiet request for care. 

And how heavy it feels — almost impossible — to take a breath of fresh air when some substance clings to you, even if it perfectly imitates you.
It’s like wearing a cast of your own skin — familiar in shape, but it doesn’t breathe.
It looks like you, but it won’t let you live.

And how often do we find ourselves reaching for a real mask — not to hide a lie, but to hide something alive, something vulnerable?
Masking becomes a way to blend into a society that cannot nourish you, that doesn’t care to hold you.
The mask as protection, but also as a capsule of alienation. 

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