Work #3
In this work, I use a group of small moai figures carved from volcanic stone, which I brought back from Rapa Nui.
Their forms originate in the ancestral culture of the island’s Indigenous people. Moai were created as representations of deceased ancestors and important leaders. They were placed on ceremonial stone platforms known as ahu, facing inland towards the communities they were intended to watch over. Their gaze was directed not towards the ocean, but towards the living, sustaining a relationship between successive generations.
Within Rapa Nui culture, moai were more than representations of the human form. They were understood as vessels of mana - the spiritual force, authority and vitality of the ancestors. When coral and obsidian eyes were placed within their sockets, the figures were considered awakened. Each became the ‘living face’ of an ancestor, able to see and protect their descendants.
In the video, the figures appear before me one by one. I do not physically arrange them; through the editing, they seem to enter the space of their own accord. Their gradual arrival reimagines the ancient act of awakening. Each new figure introduces another gaze, another presence and another source of power.
Although moai were not historically warriors, within this work they gather into a formation resembling an army. It is not an army of conquerors, but a collective of guardians. Their power is directed towards the protection of space, memory and the human figure positioned behind them. Facing the viewer, they create a boundary between my body and the external world.
The rhythm of the metronome evokes a heartbeat, a marching cadence and a recurring command through which the figures take their places. Its mechanical measure belongs to human time, while the volcanic stone carries a far older memory-one formed through fire, eruption and the gradual cooling of matter.
Two creative forces converge within these figures. Nature produces the stone; the human hand gives it a body and a face. The performance becomes a third act of creation, restoring presence, vision and collective agency to otherwise motionless objects.
My position behind the figures remains deliberately ambiguous. I may be the person who summoned them, the leader of the assembled formation, or the one they have come to protect. Perhaps I am not observing the moai at all; perhaps the awakened ancestors are looking at me through them.
The work considers the moment at which a material object ceases to function solely as an image and becomes a vessel of memory. It asks whether the artist gives matter its spiritual force, or merely awakens a force that has always existed within it.
Their forms originate in the ancestral culture of the island’s Indigenous people. Moai were created as representations of deceased ancestors and important leaders. They were placed on ceremonial stone platforms known as ahu, facing inland towards the communities they were intended to watch over. Their gaze was directed not towards the ocean, but towards the living, sustaining a relationship between successive generations.
Within Rapa Nui culture, moai were more than representations of the human form. They were understood as vessels of mana - the spiritual force, authority and vitality of the ancestors. When coral and obsidian eyes were placed within their sockets, the figures were considered awakened. Each became the ‘living face’ of an ancestor, able to see and protect their descendants.
In the video, the figures appear before me one by one. I do not physically arrange them; through the editing, they seem to enter the space of their own accord. Their gradual arrival reimagines the ancient act of awakening. Each new figure introduces another gaze, another presence and another source of power.
Although moai were not historically warriors, within this work they gather into a formation resembling an army. It is not an army of conquerors, but a collective of guardians. Their power is directed towards the protection of space, memory and the human figure positioned behind them. Facing the viewer, they create a boundary between my body and the external world.
The rhythm of the metronome evokes a heartbeat, a marching cadence and a recurring command through which the figures take their places. Its mechanical measure belongs to human time, while the volcanic stone carries a far older memory-one formed through fire, eruption and the gradual cooling of matter.
Two creative forces converge within these figures. Nature produces the stone; the human hand gives it a body and a face. The performance becomes a third act of creation, restoring presence, vision and collective agency to otherwise motionless objects.
My position behind the figures remains deliberately ambiguous. I may be the person who summoned them, the leader of the assembled formation, or the one they have come to protect. Perhaps I am not observing the moai at all; perhaps the awakened ancestors are looking at me through them.
The work considers the moment at which a material object ceases to function solely as an image and becomes a vessel of memory. It asks whether the artist gives matter its spiritual force, or merely awakens a force that has always existed within it.
