Drawn Body

There is one part of a life that cannot be excavated. Faces survive, and objects, and the marks people leave behind, but not the hour someone sat down, bent forward, and stopped performing. That hour is the subject here.

The body is turned inward and away, holding a posture nobody was meant to witness. Nothing about it is addressed outward. This is what a person looks like when they have set something down and are not yet ready to pick it up again.

It is the least recoverable thing there is: interiority given a form precisely because time never keeps it.

Tenderness and weight arrive together, carrying real emotional gravity while asking nothing of anyone passing.