Which One Is Me

A measured procession of split, shell-like bronze forms unfurls across the plinth, each concavity catching light like a held breath, shifting from warm interior gleam to the sea-worn hush of verdigris. The rhythm of expanding and contracting volumes reads as a quiet score—part tide, part spine—where repetition becomes meditation and the smallest interval between bowls feels charged with pause. Set against the stark industrial table, the work stages a dialogue between permanence and erosion, suggesting time not as a line but as a sequence of opened chambers in which memory briefly resonates.