Self Inflicted

Cracked earth. The skin of this piece carries the marks of withdrawal: a web of fracture lines where moisture once sat, dry clay pulling back into itself, grainy, powdery, like running a finger over dried mud and watching it come away under your touch. Grey-green traces still run through the surface — the last visible remains of water that is no longer there. No surface on this sphere is finished smooth. The texture forces your eye toward what's missing.

This drought is not a natural disaster without an author. It's the result of choices we kept postponing — warming we saw coming and didn't act on. Between the cracks runs a thin line of gold, and denial itself sits in that line: the instinct to make a fracture look more beautiful than it is, to gild damage instead of facing it. The earth itself will survive this. Clay dries, breaks, and eventually becomes clay again. We are not that resilient. Doing nothing makes it hard on ourselves, not on the planet.