Being

Even in the quietest room, something watches.

The walls breathe. The curtains lean. The patterns on the cloth have eyes that never close.
A teardrop hangs, mid-fall, unsure whether to land or disappear.

This is home. And yet, the body stands differently here. Shoulders slightly turned. Breath a little held. As if solitude is never truly alone.

The plant grows small and quiet in its corner, still reaching for light in a room that forgets to give it.

Soft washes of warm earth and shadowed brown, colours that feel like safety but whisper otherwise.
For even the most intimate spaces hold their silences like secrets.
And the self, watched, unspoken, aware, learns to be small inside its own walls.

“To be seen without consent is to never fully come home.”

Object number

030.04.02