I’m reading about the lives of ancient women. Mythic women. Women in the Bronze Age whose bodies were considered prizes and spoils of war. I’m thinking about the nonchalant way in which Homer’s stories had women, queens, princesses, beg their husbands to stop fighting so they wouldn’t be sold into slavery, their bodies used until all there was was their hands working at the loom.
Stories painted on shards of pottery. Carefully put together in a lab in Oxford. Showing women waiving goodbye to soldiers.

Shards.

Shards.

Shards.

Put together. Arranged.

We are not so different, us, in our “civilized world”. Our bodies are still prizes, our voices are still silenced. Prizes of war.

So I put together these shards, raging for my own loss of innocence, all that remains of an ancient song painted on a plate. But not well arranged, not methodical, not the clinical resolve of someone who’s tangentially interested, academically inclined. No white coat.

Bloody fingers putting together a puzzle.

"All that is left" (2026), Porcelain on stoneware.