Between Water and Flesh, 2024 Paper mache, acrylic paint, chicken wire, wood, dyed burlap, dyed voile 48 in x 18 in x 28 in
A white bathtub. A vessel split by a swollen body that spills beyond its borders. The stain of sexual violence: pink cloth erupts from the chest cavity in place of water, and the bathtub overflows. The distorted body refuses to conform to 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?
