Fragments
It is a strange image. At the centre, a baroque flower, an intact and luminous motif surrounded by figures in ancient costumes. A rich, abundant scene, like a ceiling fresco in a church or a palace. But all of this is badly damaged, eaten away by white areas that resemble corrosion. The edge of the image is dark, and the fresco seems to float in the middle of emptiness, like an island of history in a cosmic ocean.
One can see an eight, two eyes looking back at us, or even the symbol of infinity. Nothing is certain. The image evokes human history. Bodies and beliefs that have disappeared. The sacred, conceived to endure, becoming a trace. Between what elevates and what falls apart, an ancient world emerges, vast yet damaged. I know that I only understand part of it. And yet, it concerns me.

Fragments
It looks like a very old painting. Like the ceiling of a church or a great palace. In the middle, there is a flower. It is beautiful. Very bright. Around it, you can make out figures wearing clothes from long ago.
But this image is damaged. There are holes. White areas. It looks very old, as if time had nibbled away at the painting. You can no longer see everything. Pieces are missing. So you imagine.
This image speaks about the past. About the cities and palaces that humans built. About all the things they loved.
Some have disappeared. Others remain in pieces. You do not understand everything. But you can feel that it still matters.