Zola Índigo

Some butterflies paint false eyes on their wings to deceive those that would devour them. I think of this when I look at these portraits, at the way a body learns to breathe among flowers, geometries and fabrics that try to occupy it completely. Ornament advances like patient vegetation, yet something always remains beyond its reach: the tilt of the neck, the gravity of the gaze, the stubborn serenity of one who remains. Perhaps dignity consists solely in this: inhabiting the decoration of the world without allowing it to finish deciding our form.