There is a certain calmness captured in this piece that I keep returning to. The figure appears wet, covered in rain droplets or moisture, and yet completely unphased by the discomfort of it. I think about how deeply affected I can be by small sensory experiences, wet socks, physical discomfort, overstimulation, and I find myself fascinated by this creature’s ability to simply exist within sensation without resistance.
The image depicts some sort of primate-like being with its eyes closed, framed by enlarged cellular forms and fragments carried over from other works in the series. Those paper snippets connect the pieces together in a literal sense, but they also make me think about how identity is layered and continuously reconstructed. Parts of one work inevitably bleed into another. Parts of the self do too.
The closed eyes feel important. Much of my work tends to emphasize seeing, witnessing, or remaining visually alert, but this piece moves in the opposite direction. It reminds me that awareness does not always require looking outward. Sometimes calm asks for retreat, softness, or surrender. It is always both (open eyes and closed eyes, vigilance and rest, rinse, repeat)
There is also something quietly philosophical in the image of a calm primate. I found myself wondering whether animals are better suited to existence than humans are. Whether there is wisdom in instinct, in presence, in simply meeting the environment as it is. The creature’s healthy coat of fur, the rain, the stillness — all of it feels deeply embodied and strangely peaceful.
The gold sliver across the nose reads almost like armour, though minimal and delicate. A small act of protection rather than full defense. It makes me think about the ways we shield ourselves while still remaining soft.
At its core, this piece feels like a meditation on tenderness. On being a sensitive animal in an overwhelming world. A reminder that delicacy is not weakness, and that calm may be something ancient and instinctual living within us still.