Year: 2022
Dimensions:120 x 79 cm
Technique: Mixed Media
She rises from the water that is not water. It is something older, something that remembers a time before oceans had names, before the first wave broke against the first shore. Her body is not quite a body; it is a current given form, a tide that has paused to regard itself. Her eyes hold a knowledge that cannot be spoken—not because it is forbidden, but because it has no equivalent in any language that we have learned.
A luminous crescent crowns her. This is not a sign of divinity; it is a mark of the cyclical, the eternal return. She is not a goddess. She is the memory of one, the echo of every fertility rite and lunar hymn that has been forgotten. Her hair spills downward, twisting into shapes that are neither organic nor mineral, but something that hovers between them—a slow metamorphosis, as though the elements themselves are still deciding what to become.
Below her, the dark bird stands. Its gaze is fixed, unwavering, the gaze of a sentinel at the threshold of the known and the unknown. Beside it, the nest. A careful arrangement of the fragile and the potential, holding three eggs that are not eggs but secrets, not-yet-beginnings, the promise of a life that has not yet decided its form.
And on the margins, the circles—twenty-six of them—each containing a world. The serpent, the moth, the owl, the fossil, the eye that watches. They are not decoration; they are the evidence of a mind that refuses to accept the universe as simple. They are notes in a margin, the marginalia of existence.
To stand before this painting is to stand before the question of creation itself. What is it that we build, if not nests—structures of twigs and faith, fragile and determined, waiting for what might come?