Paige Young

‘Smell of the Flowers’ explores the complex duality of grief and medication in the lives of those who rely on it to survive. For me, medication is both a necessity and a limitation. Without it, I wouldn’t be here — but with it, certain emotions become dulled, and the full range of human experience can feel just out of reach. When my grandfather died of dementia, I wanted to cry but couldn’t — not until I saw my grandmother sobbing. Only then, through sympathetic tears, could I release anything. In joyful moments, like being on the beach with friends or during family gatherings, I’ve wanted to match their happiness, but I often feel like I’m watching from the outside. With my diagnosis of manic depression, I’ve come to accept that my emotional experience may never fully align with others.

This body of work includes still images that capture the complexities of grief and identity, alongside illuminated lightboxes that reflect emotionally muted or fragmented moments. These pieces aim to make visible what is often hidden — the internal tug-of-war between chemical balance and emotional fullness. Interactivity is central to the exhibition. A medication board is presented which allows a message-sharing space for viewers to reflect, connect, or respond. This piece contains 190 medication bottles that allow small pieces of paper to be shared from one viewer to another. Another key installation is built around VHS tapes — a metaphor for memory loss. Due to my diagnosis, much of my childhood feels inaccessible, not because it was traumatic, but because I simply can’t recall it. I long to relive these moments, just as I long to hold onto loved ones I’ve lost — but the memories remain distorted, diluted or inaccessible. To represent this, I display original VHS tapes with handwritten labels in shadow boxes. Next to them, I present their actual VHS tape — pulled from the cassettes and strung out in 20×30 frames, hiding an image behind it. The film is unreadable, unplayable, and permanently detached from its source — just like the memories stored in my mind, and similarly to my grandfather’s brain in his last days, detached from its source of function. I’ve been told about my family’s history and the people within it, but those stories are about as clear or understood as some of my lived experiences. Grief and medication create a hindrance for memory, and similarly to my grandfather’s dementia, we are left in the same state of lack of memory.

This work explores the intersection of mental health, medication, and my struggle to feel joy and grief. Medication has saved my life, yet it often mutes my emotional experience. Through this exhibition, I invite you to pause—to reflect on memory, absence, and sensation. I encourage you to try, just for a moment, to stop and remember what it feels like to smell the flowers, if you are able.