Sculptures are bodies. Objects inscribed with a human stain, often shaped by hands and existing in space, their generally inanimate tangibility a thing to measure our soft tissues against, their time moving at different speeds than the squelch and splurt of our soft-tissue corpora. Sculptures are Frankenstein’s monster, Pygmalion’s dreamgirl, leftovers from one of a hundred gods who breathed life into clay to make humans. In her curved undulating glass and bronze, the fleshy fragility of her wax, both cold…
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