A cicada spends most of its life underground—silent, still, withdrawn from visibility. When it finally emerges, it leaves its exoskeleton behind and enters light. Only then does it begin to sing, to work, to exhaust itself until death.

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This work holds that abandoned shell at the moment of transition. Preserved with Japanese lacquer and extended with wings, feathers, and leaves, the exoskeleton is no longer a vehicle for emergence. Its function is suspended. What should have been left behind is instead kept, protected, and allowed to remain.

 

I leave the body to light reflects on the threshold between contemplation and productivity. If, in contemporary life, rest is permitted only as preparation for future labor, this work asks what happens when rest is not instrumentalized—when the body does not cross into usefulness.

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Light here does not activate work.
It holds what chooses not to begin.​