I Am Clean

Seated in an ornate chair that reads like a relic of comfort and captivity, the figure collapses inward, his body rendered with a tactile heaviness while a thin wash of text clings to the skin like unwanted headlines. The warm, striped shirt fights against the cold, granular field behind him, turning color into psychology—heat of appetite and fatigue set against the indifferent quiet of space. A bottle is held close as if it were both remedy and accusation, and the open palm extends toward us in a gesture that hovers between plea, confession, and transactional demand. The work stages a sharp satire of consumption: the body becomes a ledger where desire, shame, and public narratives are literally printed, suggesting how private suffering is manufactured, marketed, and read.