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Each image is less a picture than a rite: the way old gods traded faces and bled into one another until names dissolved. I move along the seam between wearing a shape and turning into it, and I have never decided where that seam falls.
I don't ask to be saved from any of it — only what I become once I stop refusing it, and whether anyone but me gets to author that.
Something was set before I began. I keep asking what survives when one form gives way to the next. What if vulnerability was never a fracture, but the place one is taught to look away from. I make to find out.
I think by making. I leave the rest open.