.

…and we all fall  

Resin, acrylic, vintage photos, wood

30.48 x 21.59 x 38.1 cm (12 x 8.5 x 15 in)

The base carries the weight of stone.

It stands in for a marker, the kind that arrives sooner than we expect.

Above it, a translucent head holds fragments of inheritance, photographs suspended within the cranial cavity. Memory remains visible, but it cannot be touched or rearranged. It is fixed in place.

A single clear rod separates the head from the concrete. It is thin. Nearly invisible. It does not suggest strength.

The work rests on that narrow allowance.

At a certain age, the distance between self and stone shortens. What once felt abstract becomes spatial. Measurable.

The head appears to float. It does not. It is balanced above what waits.

The rod marks the fragile interval between presence and absence.

Note:

In my head, it was simple.

A clear resin head.
Family photographs suspended inside.
A thin rod.
Concrete below.

It would feel light.
Almost floating.

But weight has opinions.

Lucite is strong, but only to a point. Concrete cures on its own time. Gravity never negotiates.

I had to build a scaffold. Temporary walls. A crude architecture just to hold the idea still long enough for it to harden.

This is what no one sees.

The braces. The tape. The waiting.

The illusion of lightness is always built on something heavy.

Every work that appears effortless is held up by a structure that was never meant to be visible.

And sometimes that hidden structure is the real story.