Between Water and Flesh, 2024 Paper mache, acrylic paint, chicken wire, wood, dyed burlap, dyed voile 48 in x 18 in x 28 in
The white bathtub holds not quiet and cleanliness; it is a vessel split by a body that spills beyond its borders, swollen with memory. The figure carries the stain of sexual violence, pink cloth erupts from the figure’s chest cavity in place of water and the bathtub overflows. Here, the distorted body in the tub is not simply a representation of trauma—it is a refusal to conform to the dimensions dictated by colonial, domestic, or aesthetic norms. It is too large to be sanitized, too shaped by pain to be gracious. What does it mean to carry memories that deform one’s very sense of physicality and spatial belonging?
