Poor Nymphs, Poorer Selves

These poor nymphs of the present, distorted by the endless screens they must pass through before finding themselves in something resembling “the real world.” Unaccustomed to the weight of what we might call reality, they fall out of an infinite space-time into the brutal pull, or rather push, of gravity. Contorted and mutilated, their softened features and smooth, undifferentiated, albeit clothed, bodies still possess the residue of some former grace, now misplaced.