Maple offers its pale, close-grained silence. Meranti bleeds warmth into the grain, a reddish memory of humid forests far from here. Cedar breathes its sharp, sacred scent into the air around the piece, as if the work itself exhales. Pine, resinous and unpretentious, carries the weight of rootedness, of sap still moving long after the tree has stopped. And bamboo, impossibly resilient.
Running through all of it: copper. A vein of conducted warmth, holding the disparate voices of wood together the way water holds its own shifting floor.
The Arabian gazelle is not depicted here so much as remembered.
And beneath the gazelle: the sea floor. Not the sea's surface with its drama and light, but the deep bottom world, perpetually reshaping itself, unwitnessed, patient. Drifting. Settling. Moving again.
This is a work about convergence, of ecosystems, of continents, of the animal and the elemental, held together not by design alone, but by the intelligence of a hand that knew when to stop