Figures.
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is he you, or just blocks?
A person—a machine.
Built from cubes—broken into cubes.
Sharp, primitive—or failed, half-made.
Same cubes endlessly rearranged,
always the same—never the same.
These cubes are not innocent.
They’re the boxes we buy,
the pixels we stare into.
His image first appeared
in France—not a thought,
but a vision pressed into my mind.
I carried it for years, trying
to drag him out.
By hand he slipped—raw for lines.
In 2D he froze, refused to move.
Only in 3D he spoke back.
There his body twisted free,
shapes folding into poses,
the language he had
demanded from the start.
But on canvas he disguised himself—
looked weightless, effortless.
Hiding the pain of his birth,
like a real human.
He refused to stay one.
He grew into many.
A series with seasons—
each dismantling portraiture,
reconstructing figuration,
questioning representation itself.
He became bold.
Not portrait.
Mirror that asks you:
