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FR/EN

 

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Epiderm is a threshold surface.
A black, glossy, almost liquid skin, where the gaze slides before being halted by the engraving: a sacred text inscribed not as something to be read, but as a scar.

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Urushi — a material of patience, slowness, and mastered toxicity — here becomes a ritual epidermis. It covers, protects, suffocates, and reveals at once. The words never fully disclose themselves: they surface, then dissolve into reflections, like an archaic memory buried beneath the body’s surface.

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The engraving is not decorative; it is an incision. It evokes a transmission that precedes legible language, a form of writing that belongs more to flesh than to the book. Epiderm questions what is inscribed within us before consciousness itself: law, prayer, fault, chant.

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Between sacredness and opacity, the work functions as a dark mirror: the viewer sees themselves fragmented, absorbed into a skin that is no longer merely a surface, but a site of passage.