My Limitation Is You

A weathered hand, rendered in dense chiaroscuro, reaches across an expanse of bleached silence toward a luminous, opened fruit whose amber flesh reads like a reliquary of tenderness and decay. The taut filament that bridges them becomes a measured pulse—part lifeline, part tether—suggesting how desire, memory, and appetite bind the body to what it cannot fully possess. By staging this near-contact against a spare, clinical ground, the work turns intimacy into a suspended experiment, where the promise of sweetness is inseparable from the rawness of exposure and the inevitability of rupture.