2024 September #011. Time-stained wood encloses forms both curious and familiar; they are inmates of their own exhibition. Grain and groove whisper the quiet dignity of aging, yet within these confines, the figures press against the limits of their wooden world. Flesh merges with shadow, limbs with the darkness that dances within the void of one cabinet left ajar. The nudity is not sensual but clinical, stripped of context, vulnerable and on display.
As the creator, I imagine each figure as a moment frozen, a breath held in the anatomy of expression. The unseen viewer walks an unseen gallery, and I ponder what they seek in the silent commotion of my crafted beings. Is it the realization of their own self, reflected in the sheen of polished surfaces, or the recognition of their hidden aspects, tucked neatly in a drawer?
The physical encapsulates a narrative, mute yet loud, each muscle a word, each pose a sentence in the biography of being. They do not speak, but they are far from silent. Secrets seem to seep through the cracks, as if the wood warps around untold stories. The statues, stored, stand in limbo, wedged between forgotten and unforgettable—a gallery of genetic blueprints, art imitating life, at rest until the next observer breathes meaning into them yet again.
