At the center of a storm of graphite and gold ink stands a willowy figure who looks as though she has been carved from dusk itself. Her skin glows like warm porcelain against a gown that defies gravity: a liquid midnight silk column that clings to her torso before shattering into thousands of hand-cut obsidian petals from the low hip downward. The petals, sharp as raven feathers, grow larger and more diaphanous toward the hem, creating a dark, blooming rose that trails behind her like spilled ink frozen mid-splash. A severe, architectural neckpiece rises in matte black metal, branching into delicate thorns that graze her collarbones and frame her face like a crown of warnings. Her raven hair is slicked back into a razor-sharp knot, exposing the nape of her neck; a single white camellia trembles behind one ear as the only concession to softness. One hand hovers at her throat, fingers brushing the thorns, while the other cuts the air at her side, palm open as if releasing the darkness she wears. Around her whirl technical flats of the petal construction, frantic notes in silver pen, “3,400 individually wired petals,” “each edge hand-burnished,” “inner structure of spiral steel boning,” “weight must feel like regret,” “train detaches with one hidden hook” and the single repeated word: unforgiving.
