works and words
What comes first, the word or the form?
Linguists suggest that thought is impossible without language. Hermetic traditions claim thought is architecture. Psychologists counsel thoughts which create feelings, which, in turn, become the drivers of behavior. Working with clay engages all of this—it is a meticulous technical fabrication, intuitive transcription of sensation into shape and volume, and vigorous semantic contextualization. In that alchemical process, I find myself wondering: is the work an ekphrastic extension of my writing, which often unfolds alongside the making? Or is it the form—emerging first—that gives rise to language, inspiring written expression as a response? This new series, which I will begin sharing in the coming weeks, takes a quiet nod from Italo Calvino and explores our internal cities—the invisible landscapes that dwell within. It is about the unseen architecture of memory, emotion, and the stories carried in the cave of the body, in the cavern of the mind and the grotto of the spirit. I’ve found deep value in holding space for open dialogue and compassionate listening—both in the studio and beyond it. These works are not declarations, but invitations: to reflect, to feel, to notice what might otherwise remain unspoken.
i'm a sinner
i kept you inside me - a prisoner
i kept myself away from you - a secret
i wake up in the bloody dream of you
delivering with my bare hands
in the lullaby of my palms
a cradle grows empty of you
deep in the birth canal of your passage
you are not born like people
conceived in the heart
my hands are light of your flesh
immaculate of your touch
how do you enter a heart do you ask for a permission are there chambers to break through how do you enter the maze falling in the abyss of an abyss do you crack your silent vow painting the inner vessel of the body with mute screams give me clay god eyes pour down water washing away the mud she asked to be delivered but how do you deliver a heart i went to the birth canal with my fingers - trembling clippers a tin pot water filled to wash off the remnants of her velvet blanket skin wrinkled time clenched the fingers pot grew rust water grew a steamy ghost to ghost how do you enter a heart crossing the labyrinth of the recessed chambers do you dare to walk in trespassing with the needles of your knitting steps are you surprised that it is dark did you imagine a meadow from the winged mind of a butterfly are you surprised that it is dark moist and hollow are you surprised that it is tight you can’t see hear feel you can’t fight what do you do when the walls are yelling their fibers - Out how do you enter a heart through the tiny tunneled paths self-engulfing rigidly weaved mesh of an urn vision obliterated curiosity negated points the lesser dwells in the lack are you surprised you are a foreign object in your own heart a splinter - sharp piece of glass grinding the cliffs of your humane experience do you question your own form what would it take to find out how do enter a heart from the inside but appealing for a permission two abysses mingle in your feet are you proud standing numb pleading negating the need of proper grammar tic-tac-toe the deep sips the tears of your body heat - comfort undone the stick melts singing the null code of your heartbeat do you remember how it all started with a question without a mark