Our culture's perspective on death is often a hushed veil, a world of votive and vigil smoothing over graphic pain. Perhaps to some, the body has become alien, a disassociated vessel we use as a tool to accomplish the mechanics of everyday life. The artist sees the body, flesh as transient canvas of paint and contour. Eyelashes could be plucked as fine, thin brush bristles, hair consuming the form of flowing, undulant waves. Eyes become jewels of azure and absinthe, fluid blue divining orbs or burnt umber lit with crimson flecks of flaming autumn pyres.
Skin is of pearl and scars, textured grooves of pores like sand sifting underneath fingers.
Veins course with crimson surges, the heart chambers controlling tides of blood that throb the rhythm of breath. The undercurrent of a pulse resonates through tunnels of bone, tweaking a pattern of motion and melancholy of age. A skeleton is a stark image, whether confronted as a hollow frame, or as a labyrinth of curved shells connecting the body. Bones possess a certain poetry, whether it's to tell horrific tales of carnage, shards upon a desolate landscape, or to tell of beauty, symmetry felt under the hands, a delicate presence. Artists like DaVinci were fascinated by bone structure and anatomy, while modern artists weave bones into sculpture and painted images.