The thickness of thighs surrounding and wrapping up a body; its color and consistency create a second skin that is torn, ripped, and then resewn together, trying to protect a skeleton.  

Underneath this layer of skin, images made of transparent paper meet bones sewn with silver thread, composing encounters of vulnerable bodies. In the attempt to reach the optimal distance between each other to communicate and not hurt one another, the skin gets ripped.

We can, at times, detect the ghost of text behind layered sheets or nylon filters. Each work is a remnant of handling, reading, flipping pages, and forgetting in their intimate scale and materiality. As these images decay, they refer to the body that made them and the diminished grand narratives they distantly evoke.