Dispersal 2025
In a dream, I sculpted the figure of a headless woman seated on a swing. I left her there—unfinished, forgotten. Time passed. When I returned, the figure had changed: she had grown a head.
The vision led me to the Hagia Triada, a Minoan ceramic sculpture from 1500–1400 BC: a goddess, surrounded by birds in ascent. It exists in waking life, yet feels born from a dream. Like the headless woman, she too is a symbol—guarded, transformative, ascending.
The swing becomes a threshold. The torso becomes a bloom, unfolding from within—or is it the flower remembering its human form? As ancient hands once shaped a goddess from clay and breath, so are we sculpted by the quiet hands of memory, the hush of history, the murmur of dreams.
Tigsha bells dangle from her petal-skirt like flower stems, chiming—not in harmony, but in cacophony; clashing and spreading their wavelengths of sound. A shimmering reminder: Life vibrates, endlessly. Not always in tune. Not always serene. But always alive.