Paper Skin

A body twists into abstraction here, angular planes of ochre, pink, and green fitted together like torn paper, held apart and together by sharp black lines that read as much like folds and creases as flesh. There’s a fragility to how the color meets the edges thin, crisp boundaries where one shade ends and another begins, as if the whole figure could be unfolded flat again. Against a cool grey-blue field, the warmth of the body’s colors feels exposed, thin, easily creased. Paper Skin speaks to a kind of vulnerability that isn’t soft but structural the sense of being assembled from pieces that could tear, fold, or shift if handled carelessly. It’s a body rendered as something delicate yet deliberately constructed, holding its shape only through the sharpness of its own edges.