The Memory of the Herd

The Memory of the Herd speaks of instinct as something older than language — a knowledge the body remembers before the mind can name it.

The bulls move as a single body, not as individuals. Some forms hold their weight; others dissolve into traces, as if surfacing from the walls of a cave that no longer exists. Across the canvas, matte glyphs and archaic marks emerge only when the viewer shifts position — a slow act of recognition, of remembering something one has never seen.

The white hares pass through the herd like quiet signals: intuition, alertness, the invisible pulse that turns many bodies into one movement. Above, the crescent moon watches in silence — present, but never intervening.

Long before we had words, we painted animals to understand what moved within us: fear, survival, power, belonging. The Memory of the Herd listens for that older voice, and answers in the same language — only now, the cave is a canvas.