‘Medusa’s Anatomy’
Medusa’s Anatomy is a portrait of rage, instinct, memory, and the body as myth. I’ve always felt that Medusa is misunderstood—not a monster, but a woman whose power was born from trauma, silence, and the refusal to remain ornamental. In this painting, she isn’t frozen in mythology; she feels contemporary, visceral, alive inside her own embodiment.
The grayscale palette lets the tattoos behave like history written on skin: symbols of protection, danger, desire, resilience, instinct. They are not decoration. They represent the emotional archive carried inside a body that has learned to defend itself. Medusa becomes a mirror for everything women are asked to swallow, suppress, or apologize for, until the softness becomes sharpness.
Behind her, anatomy replaces myth. The ribcage, the brain, the organs, the fragments of personal notes—all of them remind me that mythology isn’t separate from biology. Fear, intuition, heartbreak, sensuality, survival—they happen inside the body long before they ever become language or story. Medusa’s Anatomy treats inner life as a physical landscape: a nervous system where memory and instinct live side by side.
This piece is a reclamation, not a warning. Medusa is no longer punished for her intensity. She owns it. She embodies the emotional duality that feels true to many of us: tenderness that has teeth, boundaries that feel sacred, a body that holds more truth than the mind sometimes wants to translate. Medusa’s Anatomy is a reminder that personal mythology begins in the flesh.