ANASTASIA KOMAR
Management
04.23 - 06.08 2025
New York
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A voice—calm, and measured.
I am not first, but only. Mother and father to all that crawl, that breathe, that can reach and recoil. In your marrow, where it narrows.
Between me and you, lattice-like and shifting. Organelles free-based in the ichor of potential. The cask of merging, consuming, becoming, is here. The split and spread of tendrils not yet come to flesh, an infinite presence sprouting in brilliant technicolor. Between potential and reality. Coated in a cipher of biological intent. It wraps itself in damask, and yearns, hardening in shells made of acetate.
A whisper charged pulses, an ancient incantation woven from the language of ions and gradients, a hymn of hydrogen and heat.
I am the ghost of vents long cooled, the ember of oceans still boiling. Fish have walked out of me. I am the channel that bridges time, the sinew between future’s past and past’s future. You were never alone. You were always me.
Lines emerge from the void, glowing filaments that tangle and weave into fractal patterns. These are cells, or not cells, but the idea of cells—their earliest echoes, when life was a thought not yet spoken. From the central chamber, a translucent mass writhes and divides, a digital rendering of genesis itself. Not a reconstruction of history, but a suggestion, a dream of what might have been before there was anything else to remember.
I am not first, but only. Mother and father to all that crawl, that breathe, that can reach and recoil. In your marrow, where it narrows.
Between me and you, lattice-like and shifting. Organelles free-based in the ichor of potential. The cask of merging, consuming, becoming, is here. The split and spread of tendrils not yet come to flesh, an infinite presence sprouting in brilliant color. It wraps itself in damask, and it yearns, hardening in shells made of acetate.
Its placenta unfurls into space, a web of sensory tendrils reaching, translating the shifting currents of its environment, a transmission node pulsing with silent messages. It is not inert. It sings its song I know in my cells, searches for echoes in the void—others like itself, or at least the promise of their existence.
In my womb, life replays its first refrain.
To be. To become. To reach. To return.
Bathed in the petrichor of an electrochemical gradient, folded into every lungful of air, LUCA endures.
— Maya Kotomori