Amber

Amber captures a moment of collapse: emotional, physical, maybe both. A young dancer (or perhaps an artist) lies curled tightly on a bed or studio floor, still in her tights and leotard, as if she’s sunk into this position mid-transition, too tired to finish changing, too drained to rise. Her body folds inward, a shape of both protection and surrender.

The dark shadow behind her feels almost alive: looming like exhaustion itself, or the lingering presence of something unshakable. Still, the light on her face and limbs is soft, almost tender. There’s no drama here, just a quiet truth: the kind of fatigue that comes not just from movement, but from giving everything to something that might never give back.

The title Amber speaks to this stillness:  a moment suspended in resin. Not frozen in fear, but preserved in honesty. This is what it looks like to burn out, quietly, and still be beautiful.