Us human, we tend to distinct ourselves with imaginary borders and walls, just to get a sense of singularity—putting ourselves in boxes we don’t need, confining others in spaces they don’t deserve. But aren’t we all of the same vulnerable body, crawling like chains tangled to each other, grasping for the slightest comfort any hand can lend? At the end of the day, we will share the same bed of thorns and roses six feet under the warm blanket of soil and quiet darkness.

Though wary it may sound, Isos, is a solemn rumination to our sum and substance as humanity. It contends that life and death are all but the same side of a chain reaction which binds us all.

As if dissecting the anatomy of human nature on an operating table, Isos’ raw flesh of copper and brass is left bare in the open with its thorny gashes and wounds. Deep beneath this corporeal body is a skeletal form, permanently locked in inescapable interconnectedness, as drops of red-blood garnet spilled like blossoming rosebuds, a living proof to our common frail transience.

Isos exists as a gentle reminder to the verity of our lives—that we share the same body of space and crisis, adjoined at loss and tragedy. But it is in this parity that we can find strength to survive—not as singulars, but as equals.