Prisoner, 2012

24" x 32" acrylic on board; Unframed + Cradle Box

At first, the figure in Prisoner suggests a solitary human presence standing against a shifting sky. But the illusion dissolves upon closer inspection, revealing not flesh, but driftwood—scarred, nailed, and bound in cruel strands of barbed wire. What appears human is in truth a tree rendered captive, its roots clutching at cold stones, its twisted form bristling with wounds both real and symbolic.

The piece plays with the viewer’s instinct to recognize humanity in natural forms, then confronts that impulse with a darker reality: this “person” is an image of suffering carved by time, violence, and neglect. The great gash across its torso suggests not only physical harm but also a rupture of spirit—an inner wound too deep to mend. The figure’s bowed, faceless head evokes shame, defeat, or perhaps resignation, as though the act of simply standing upright has become its final endurance.

The work wrestles with themes of captivity, degradation, and the transformation of living things into objects of torment. Yet, within the bleakness, there is also a strange dignity. The driftwood remains upright, rooted in its stony ground despite the wire that cuts, the nails that pierce, and the scars that testify to long affliction. Prisoner becomes an allegory of suffering borne in silence—an image of the human condition reflected through the form of a tree, where nature and mortality merge in a single figure of quiet defiance.