In My Society 11 (Grasping Hands)

A dense rosette of interlocked hands blooms in sepia tones, each palm reaching, clutching, and yielding, until individuality dissolves into a single organism of need and mutual dependence. At the center, a small, ornamental panel reads like a gilded relic or screen—an index of culture and value—held in place by the very bodies it both attracts and constrains. The circular field acts as a sealed arena, where touch becomes a choreography of solidarity and struggle, while the faint animal presence at the rim and the shadowed lower edge introduce a quiet predatory pressure, suggesting how desire and survival coil around the collective.