This piece doesn’t care to stay still. This figure is more ghost than body, and yet somehow even more holy. There’s a halo — blatant, luminous, undeniable — like a neon sign in the fog saying behold. The lines are restless, ecstatic, a kind of energetic scribble that reads more like tongues than drawing. This is a woman, yes, but she is also icon, myth, portal, relic.
She bleeds blue. She breathes red. White isn’t light here — it’s interruption, flashpoint, erasure. The body is being made and unmade at the same time. And those sperm shapes again — not ornamental, not decorative — are like echoes from the other panel, looping back, connecting the two women across some psychic space. Fertility? Maybe. Creation? Definitely. They swirl not just around her, but through her.
Where Work A is rooted in the dirt, this one floats. It’s ephemeral, less form than apparition, and yet it radiates. And look: the flowers again, half-bloom, half-body. The land doesn’t just hold her — it becomes her. Or maybe she becomes it.
The water-lines rise like smoke from her face. Feminine, yes, but also elemental. Like the sea and sky conspired to make her sacred.
This piece doesn’t care to stay still. This figure is more ghost than body, and yet somehow even more holy. There’s a halo — blatant, luminous, undeniable — like a neon sign in the fog saying behold. The lines are restless, ecstatic, a kind of energetic scribble that reads more like tongues than drawing. This is a woman, yes, but she is also icon, myth, portal, relic.
She bleeds blue. She breathes red. White isn’t light here — it’s interruption, flashpoint, erasure. The body is being made and unmade at the same time. And those sperm shapes again — not ornamental, not decorative — are like echoes from the other panel, looping back, connecting the two women across some psychic space. Fertility? Maybe. Creation? Definitely. They swirl not just around her, but through her.
Where Work A is rooted in the dirt, this one floats. It’s ephemeral, less form than apparition, and yet it radiates. And look: the flowers again, half-bloom, half-body. The land doesn’t just hold her — it becomes her. Or maybe she becomes it.
The water-lines rise like smoke from her face. Feminine, yes, but also elemental. Like the sea and sky conspired to make her sacred.