Medusa

She is not the monster you were warned about. This Medusa is not made of stone, but of consequence—a girl fossilized by the weight of a thousand unwanted judgments. Her skin carries the cool, veined texture of marble not by curse, but by the slow accretion of every gaze that ever turned her into an object. The tragedy isn’t that she turns men to stone; it’s that they looked at her and saw only a statue to begin with.

Challenging you to hold her gaze, this Medusa’s power is not a weapon she wields, but a defense mechanism, a feedback loop of perception. To look upon her is to see your own objectifying stare reflected back, petrifying not with magic, but with the chilling realization of your own complicity.

The serpents are not her crown; they are her council. Notice how they do not hiss, but listen, their sleek forms weaving through her hair like living, obsidian thoughts. Their eyes are polished jet, reflecting a fragmented, dizzying view of the viewer, a warning that to stare is to be seen in turn. The classical marble bust format isn’t a homage; it’s the cage she has been placed in, the plinth upon which she has been displayed. The single, weathered tear tracing a path down her cheek is not water, but the slow erosion of patience.

This is not a myth. It is a mirror.

Acrylics on canvas
30" x 40"