The body at a threshold, the archaic rite, the clinical gesture, eternal sleep. At stake are consciousness and the physical ties that bind us to machine and flesh, what of both persists when the shell gives way.

Science fiction and alchemy enter here not as subjects but as structures of thought, two languages that, in distinct centuries, speculated on the transmutation of matter and the passage of the body into another state. The figure is cast from the real and then betrayed: couplings that simulate the modular, lines that cite the circuit, alchemical inscriptions incised into the silicone. Where the skin would be flesh, the synthetic insists; where it would be machine, the organic persists. Neither prevails, and it is in that indecision that the work operates.

Suspended above the table, run through by the vibration that turns it into membrane, the figure occupies a space that is at once a chamber of transition and a bed. The work refuses transcendence as escape — there is no soul freeing itself from the body. There is, instead, the material question of what remains when we cease to coincide with the flesh we once were, and whether that permanence is continuity or merely another mode of obsolescence. The answer is not given: it rests with whoever looks.