Untitled 121 (Roots and Wings)

A suspended organ-like form—part heart, part landscape—holds a branching tree at its core, as if memory has taken root inside flesh and refuses to be dislodged. Crimson rivulets descend from above, turning the white paper into a clinical void where tenderness and injury coexist, while dotted stitch-lines and cutaway contours suggest a body repeatedly repaired, mapped, and redefined. The dark trunk cleaves the composition like a vein or fault line, countered by confetti-like blossoms that insist on renewal even as shadows pool and bleed downward. Perched over a small table, the form reads as a specimen and an offering, asking whether what sustains us—love, grief, ancestry—can ever be contained without staining the world around it.