Matalon 61

The shadow of a butterfly disappears after a day, a fleeting moment of beauty that leaves us pondering the impermanence of life. In this ephemeral dance, we drift in water, caught in a whirlpool, with a butterfly wing on one page and its twin on the other. Fog envelops us, a seashell holds its secrets, and movement arises from the ground, as hands pry open the mouth of an animal.

Bodies merge into one, reflecting the unity and solitude of a woman walking home alone at night. Suns hover above and below, a seashell nested within another, while a man cries out to the heavens, echoing the eternal rhythm of the waves. A seashell morphs into a stone, majestic on the whirlpool’s waves, clouds obscure eyes and seal lips; hands point skyward above the closed face of an archetype. An arrow and a fireball burst with rainbow hues, in a space where the sun rises and a central seashell releases a breath of beauty.

The spread-out seashell reveals a small woman in the room’s corner, waves conceal a woman's form, and a head floats amid endless waves. A spread divided into four shows a woman performing simple acts: cooking an omelet, sitting on the toilet, lying on the bed, and shaping a bird with her hands. A butterfly and sun, seashell, and circular motion, alongside Krishnamurti’s words on death and liberation, invite us to “die” to the known. A shirt hides a butterfly in a closet, an olive tree stands behind bars, and a woman lies on a barred bed before a TV displaying a mermaid, carrying five hundred dragons from the past. This tapestry of imagery weaves a narrative of introspection and transformation, urging us to find the extraordinary within the mundane.