This work began as an act of wrapping myself—layer by layer, with plastic tape—trying to find the shape of my body, yet creating something hollow inside. It was a strange process, both hiding and revealing at the same time. Each layer felt like a barrier, a way to obscure myself, but in the end, all I could produce was a shell—a fragile form that mimics my body but holds none of its life.

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I started with my hands, moving to my arms, my legs, and eventually my whole body. It was repetitive and methodical, but also deeply emotional. Peeling myself out of the tape felt like shedding a skin, leaving behind a version of myself that is empty—no bones, no flesh, nothing but a trace. I held this hollow form and found myself asking, “Won’t you carry me?”

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This question comes from a place of vulnerability. In creating this hollow body, I see the things I’ve learned to hide: shame, fear, regret, and the weight of silence. The cast is an echo of the parts of me I’ve kept hidden, yet it is also a way of emerging—of making those things visible, even if only as a hollow outline.

The work ties back to the tension I feel in my practice: the constant pull between wanting to be seen and needing to stay hidden. By creating a form that exists without substance, I confront my fear of letting myself out fully, while also finding the courage to say, this is what remains. It is a process of peeling back, of uncovering, and of asking what it means to hold or carry something so fragile yet so heavy.