Standing Stones presents a solitary female figure at rest, her body leaning gently against a ring of towering pillars. She meets the viewer’s gaze directly, composed and unguarded, as if encountered mid-pause rather than staged. The moment is quiet, but not passive, her presence anchors the space.

The pillars themselves are remnants of a lost technological order. Their surfaces are etched with circuitry, their forms recalling both engineered systems and ancient monoliths. Over time, they have begun to collapse into the landscape, partially submerged as the ground rises to meet them. Their original function has long since been forgotten; they are no longer tools, but fixtures, repurposed through use rather than understanding.

Encroaching around them is a new kind of geology: a fusion of the natural and the synthetic. The rock references phenomena such as Plastiglomerate—materials formed when plastic binds with organic matter under heat, creating a permanent, hybrid substrate. Within this imagined future, such formations have become foundational, marking the enduring presence of human-made matter within the earth itself.

Like the figure, this world does not interrogate its origins. She does not question the pillars or the ground beneath her; she inhabits them. The absence of clothing removes her from any fixed temporal identity, allowing her to exist as part of this evolving landscape rather than apart from it. In Standing Stones, history is not remembered, it is embedded, weathered, and quietly lived with