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    <lastmod>2026-01-28</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - On NiceNess - So I remind myself:</image:title>
      <image:caption>Stop talking about it. Be about it. Stop the pose. Be a difference in kind. Make a difference. Be kind.</image:caption>
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    <loc>https://www.gabrielvinas.com/on-looking/what-remains-part-8-the-weight-of-stone</loc>
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    <lastmod>2025-11-27</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
      <image:caption>Home Room: A (they only measured conduct) Science: A1B (I talked a lot) Physical Education: A1A ( I think the guy gave this to everyone, I barely did anything) Music: A1A (if PE didn’t produce future athletes I don’t imagine this class gave us any Mozarts or Beyonces) Social Studies: A1B (I engaged too much in the social part of the studies) Art: A2A (I think the teacher was making a point that I wasn’t trying hard enough, perhaps this lesson stuck with me) Mathematics: A1A (easy mode when the problem is clear, call me) English/Reading – Mrs. Marquez….</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone - “There is something wrong with him.”</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
      <image:caption>We now find ourselves back on this mountainside in Italy, where my parents would arrive the following morning and I would be graded again. It is the last work session before they arrive and as I carve I wondered how I might measure up. My wife asked in bewilderment why I was nervous about their arrival. Perhaps after reading this she might come to see that their approval has always been an ever-present weight on my shoulders. Like Sisyphus, I’ve been carrying this particular stone for some time. Rest assured that it isn’t heavy, that much I can promise. It is the weight that a little boy once had to carry all those years ago, how heavy could it be for me now? Yet somehow as I write these words it’s weight amplifies. I’ve been here before, many times, anxiously anticipating a release of some sort that will make all this toil and effort finally “be enough”. That a sufficient enough achievement could repay their hard work and sacrifices. That I could win this game of sculptural Parcheesi, and they’ll have known I’ve won. As if that could quell the tireless chase for artistic excellence that would justify my short moment of life on this planet. Here, tonight, the absurd finds me where I didn’t expect it. My very work, tied to a semi-conscious insistence that it might somehow allow me to be more than I am. If I could make something great enough, maybe someday I could be the subject of a children’s book that another child’s mother reads aloud at bedtime. These thoughts are only the appeals of a mere mortal, whose shoulders are now dusted white with achievement, still unable to come to full grips with his own mortality and the fleeting nature of his existence. I smile and show myself a little grace for my foolishness. I gaze at the eyes of the sculpture, perhaps with the eyes of the child I once was, still am. The thought of crumpling it up and stashing it in my desk cubby came to mind. Instead, I nod, “Buena esa, Chama.” – “Good job, kid.”</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 8: The Weight of Stone</image:title>
      <image:caption>I smiled. I felt the weight of the stone ease, not because it had grown lighter, but because I was no longer carrying it alone. The bust stood finished, not by me, but by us.</image:caption>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.gabrielvinas.com/on-looking/a-day-unlike-yesterday</loc>
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    <lastmod>2025-09-14</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - A Day Unlike Yesterday</image:title>
      <image:caption>Today I drank from your mug, though mine sat waiting.   I sit in our yard, awaiting your arrival, contemplating what I am.   Photographs show me in many guises. The mirror too— its stranger, never quite the same.   The man I keep there is not yesterday’s man.   So I let the idea of a face— my face— fade away.   I wait for yours Like a stone in search of balance to fill the space of my awareness.   And then you emerge, fresh from the house: familiar, yet unlike yesterday.   The coffee warms me more from this mug. My being steadies when I meet your gaze.   “I” falls away. My face is your face.   Here, where my face should be, peace arrives— the space where you happen, today.</image:caption>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.gabrielvinas.com/on-looking/part-7-make-thee-a-cato</loc>
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    <priority>0.5</priority>
    <lastmod>2025-11-27</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 7: Make Thee A CAto</image:title>
      <image:caption>To have one’s likeness rendered in marble and made public was a communal display of reverence, respect, and sometimes love. The act of immortalizing a person in this way often followed a great achievement—years of service, intellectual contributions, hard-fought elections, or the conquering of peoples scarcely different from one’s own. One could say the practice was reserved solely for those in positions of power, earned and unearned alike. You would be right to think this. Not to mention that nearly all busts of this genre were made of men—men who more than likely had stained pasts or blood on their hands to earn the honor. While I acknowledge this troubling truth, it is the act itself—the making and placing of the sculpture—that fascinates me, not the potentially compromised man depicted in cold stone. Rather, it is the act of contending with a piece of stone and shaping it into what it is not, and of having the likeness of a chosen person made public in a seemingly futile effort to have their face remembered. And then it falls on the community to want to remember. The presence of a bust in the town square is, in a sense, a collaborative effort. The people who inhabit a place ultimately have a say. There are countless acts of vandalism, violent toppling, and gentle replacement of public sculptures where the people have declared they’d had enough remembrance. Memory is a strange thing that way—it can bring joy or pain. Shown here is a young Marcus Aurelius, on display at the Uffizi Galleries, Italy.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 7: Make Thee A CAto</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 7: Make Thee A CAto</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 7: Make Thee A CAto</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 7: Make Thee A CAto</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 7: Make Thee A CAto</image:title>
      <image:caption>The sculpture is of Andrés, wearing the simple garment I described before—a tank-top-like shirt seen in a few photos from 1992. A cuirass fitting for any war of purpose. On his shoulder, in keeping with tradition, his paludamentum is a knotted bedsheet he once used to swaddle me—a symbol of the warmth and security he draped me with when he made his decision. An emperor’s treatment for a gesture that rippled through and changed the course of my life. But the other shoulder is left bare. I wanted to show that this wasn’t a man destined for depiction in marble from the start, but someone who stepped forward in a moment—vulnerable, undecorated—and still chose to carry the weight. Like Marcus’s ivory shoulders, the strength was not inherent; it was revealed in the moment of coming to terms with what lay ahead and pressing on despite a sea of eventual and inevitable troubles. “The obstacle is the way,” as an old emperor once said. Epictetus, the slave turned Stoic lecturer, advised his students to choose a sage or model—“Set before yourself a Cato or a Socrates,” he said—and imagine how they would act in moments of difficulty. Not because perfection was possible, but because having a standard sharpens one’s moral compass. Perhaps this is an appeal to meaning outside of what is on offer from this cold, seemingly meaningless universe. Perhaps. But the boulder calls me to keep pushing.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 7: Make Thee A CAto</image:title>
      <image:caption>Make thee a Cato, I tell myself. I suppose that on the eve of my possible fatherhood, with its certain trials and obstacles, this sculpture is my own quiet variation of that mantra. And so, I have set before myself a Cato. A father, not a conqueror. A tank top, not ornamental armor. A piercing gaze, not a sharpened sword. Not an appeal to meaning, but a meditation on moving one’s life forward despite not knowing. But still—a gesture rendered in stone to remind me: how to stand: upright. what to carry: the vulnerable. and when to act: now.</image:caption>
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    <loc>https://www.gabrielvinas.com/on-looking/what-remains-part-6-the-shape-of-the-living</loc>
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    <priority>0.5</priority>
    <lastmod>2025-10-09</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living</image:title>
      <image:caption>This paradox became acute as I returned to portraiture. Whether using clay or marble, if the moment I'm sculpting will never exist again—if Kelsey's expression as she reads, the particular quality of morning light across her features, the precise configuration of thought and feeling that animates her face—if all of this is already gone by the time I lift my tools, then what exactly am I doing with these months of careful carving? Why choose a medium that takes so long to reveal what was never there to begin with? These questions loomed over me until I began to ponder if I was asking it backwards. I had been operating with the premise that sculpture was a technology for preservation or restoration: which is to say, that after all my education, both practical and theoretic, observational and representational painting, drawing, and sculpture was in some sense implied to be inextricably linked with attempting to describe and preserve the subject. I started to question this underlying assumption more critically and came to realize that I was holding onto this definition without ever examining if it was built on proper reason. Obviously, art can attempt to capture what is before the artist, but it doesn’t necessitate that it be the purpose of its practice. What I was actually discovering was sculpture operating for me as a technology for presence. The stone doesn't capture the moment—it creates the conditions for sustained attention to what is perpetually arising and passing away, not just the subject itself but the arising thoughts, feelings, and experience of them from my conscious perspective.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living</image:title>
      <image:caption>With this perspective in mind I return to the portrait of the person to whom I am the witness for. Today she is in her happy place, below the lemon tree, beside the grapefruit tree, being the sweetness between. she sips her coffee as she reads a few pages of her book on microorganisms. Meanwhile I scrape the edge of her marble cheek as I catch her fleshy one in my sights. She takes a break, a new accessory for her studio-wear has arrived in the mail. She insists that I opine on the aesthetics of such a working-lady’s headdress. I attend, I witness, and approve. I return to continue to shape the cheek on the sculpture but this time settling into the sensation of how at peace and contented she is with the acquisition of such a simple garment. It’s clear seeing of this kind – the kind where gratitude comes flowing generously – that has filled my practice. It is a way of making contact with the life I have, as the wave of tranquility swells until it dissipates back into the sea of our lives. I know this moment won’t last; neither will this sculpture; it too will erode with the winds of time long after she and I are both gone, but until then it will hold evidence of my witnessing the impermanent life we have lived, are living, and our life yet to come.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living - Threads</image:title>
      <image:caption>I folded your clothes, still warm from the wash, how empty they seemed without the structure of you propping them up. Warm only for a few more moments, until the chill of the empty room regulates them back to "room" temperature. With bends and flicks they collapse into a pile of threads. Without you, all your outfits, your dresses and socks, they sit in wait to be chosen, unfolded, and supported by your radiant structure. As I look up after placing the last of your garments to see a collection of our wedding photos I, to my shame, rarely look at for any extended period of time. I smile. There you are in photographic stills, bringing structure to your white wedding gown and bringing structure to me. You chose me, even if without you at times I feel I could collapse as easily as an unworn garment. You are in these pictures enamored by the man I was, seemed to be, and may yet be. It brings me immense joy that while this room, like the clothing, is empty of your presence, you are but a few steps away busy in our kitchen. Bringing more structure to our world, cooking us nourishing meals so that we may fill the coming days with effort towards our mutual goals. Your structure makes a man of the threads of which I am woven. With you I stand more upright. Thank you for existing.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living - Flight Through the Grey</image:title>
      <image:caption>The Arizona sky was grey. I woke to a shriek. A yell. A cry. As I flung the sheets from the bed and grabbed my glasses to get to the door and run toward you, I knew. I was too late. Running to the room where you were, I knew, I was too late. I opened the door and—your voice shaking, eyes red, a phone to your ear—you yelled: "My mother's dead!" I held you, your body trembling, my arms attempting to contain the agony threatening to tear you asunder. I could feel the sadness, anger, and regret emanating from you as vividly as the moisture of your tears on my shoulder. There was no consolation to give; no appeal to any idea or story that could remedy or blunt the sting of your present circumstance. Over the next few days you will likely hear it all: "She's in a better place." "You'll be reunited someday." "It was her time, God has a plan." Greatest hits and their remixes. They are nothing but the potato chips and ice cream of philosophy—junk food to appease a mind struck head-on by the absurdity of our existence. Easy to consume today, but in excess, crippling. Soothing words that may make the pain feel more manageable for a moment, yet slowly dull the truth of what has happened. Now there remains a body where your mother once was, and I have a deficit of words for you. The emptiness of my worldview will seem heartless to most, but it is not made of the ready-made opiates of the mind. I will not tell you there is some greater plan. I will not tell you this is for the best. All we can be certain of is that you are struggling for a logic to the absurdity of this event, and I am struggling with the impotence to solve it for you. That struggle is all we have, the mere fact that we have these drives is enough. As we sit here in this tin can flying across the grey sky toward your childhood home, I'm holding your hand, still searching for the "right" words. I lose myself to the fantasy of making you whole again, as if there were magical syllables I could utter to bring you instant joy. But that fantasy would only separate me from just being here—to focus on the way you blink, how your hand moves ever so slightly in mine, how it squeezes from time to time, how a small tear catches a highlight from the window as you stare at me. I'm here to witness the unfolding of your life for as long as we have it. I'm here not to dull your pain, but to help you navigate it, for as long as it lasts—which will be for as long as you live. To tell you that it gets better, or that it goes away, would be tantamount to saying you'll forget her. And forgetting her would be losing your love for her to the opiates of feel-goodery. It's heavy. Only you know how much it weighs. This will not be easy. But when you tire, I will be here to carry it with you, for as long as we must. It will make us stronger—strong enough to be open to the suffering of not just each other, but all the helpless sentient beings we will meet in our absurd time in this terribly beautiful universe. We hurt. We remain. Together.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 6: The Shape of the Living</image:title>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.gabrielvinas.com/on-looking/what-remains-part-5-the-mundane</loc>
    <changefreq>monthly</changefreq>
    <priority>0.5</priority>
    <lastmod>2025-09-03</lastmod>
    <image:image>
      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/63d6c49f5964db4f9031b26e/bb206625-a805-4b3a-8c43-c86f277ea8ad/IMG_7657.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 5: The Mundane</image:title>
      <image:caption>Marcus Aurelius once advised to "accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart." These words echo in my mind as I find myself in an unexpected classroom for the practice of attention: the backseat of a family car, traveling through the Arizona desert. I was 33, but it seemed like I was 15 again, on a trip to Disney World in Florida to take my 6 year old sister to see Goofy and Donald Duck. It struck me then that while I had those moments at an early age, I didn’t realize how lucky I was. I was likely head down in my sketch book drawing anime characters or in a portable video game, still enjoying the banter of the car, but not exercising clear seeing. As those memories found my 33 year old self, I looked around, to clearly see was before me.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 5: The Mundane</image:title>
      <image:caption>As I write, my wife notices and leans over: "What are you writing?" she grins. "Spill the tea!" My sister laughs and chimes in: "Yeah, what is it?" I smile and shake my head. "Don't worry about it.", I reply. Because how could I tell them? That I'm writing about their eventual deaths—not to be morbid, but because thinking of it sharpens my gratitude. It's a way of meditating on how lucky I am to have them here. Laughing. Talking about music. Headed toward the red rocks of northern Arizona to watch the sky change color. We pull over at a gas station. My wife wants sparkling water. I offer to get it. And of course—I come back with the wrong kind.</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/63d6c49f5964db4f9031b26e/d46128b1-d9c0-4087-bf12-319151e3e3a0/DSCF7929.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 5: The Mundane</image:title>
      <image:caption>This, perhaps, is the true fruit of all those years studying death and impermanence: a deepened capacity to notice life. Not as something to solve or reconstruct or preserve, but as something to witness while it remains. The practice of attending to what is rather than what was or what might be. I spent a year working on reconstructing the nasal tip, angle and protrusion relative to the skull based on statistically significant correlations, and yet, the smell of this car and the snacks these magnificent apes that surround me are grazing on, my sense of it, is mine alone to experience.; for it will vanish in the next moment, never to be resurrected by the tools of any future science.</image:caption>
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  </url>
  <url>
    <loc>https://www.gabrielvinas.com/on-looking/what-remains-part-4-the-return-to-attention</loc>
    <changefreq>monthly</changefreq>
    <priority>0.5</priority>
    <lastmod>2025-07-28</lastmod>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/63d6c49f5964db4f9031b26e/6400d65c-8117-489f-a9ab-8a4c3f209c09/IMG_6502.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 4: The Return to Attention</image:title>
      <image:caption>The weeks following my return from Italy unfolded in a curious rhythm—a tempo neither fully oriented to the past nor completely aligned with whatever future awaited. The marble dust still settled into the crevices of my fingernails, a tactile reminder of what remains of my massive undertaking an ocean away that contrasted with the emptiness of my studio calendar. The experience of achieving a large-scale marble piece had come and gone. For nearly a decade, I had known exactly what my hands would be doing tomorrow, next week, next month. Now, that certainty had evaporated, leaving behind not anxiety but something more subtle—a spaciousness I hadn't felt since childhood. I found myself tracing old paths without purpose. My body would instinctively move toward the shelves of calipers and measuring tools, my hands reaching for objects no task required. My studio remained as it had been—specimen skulls and in-progress heads lined my shelves, modeling tools arranged by size, reference books stacked by frequency of use—but the central workbench where reconstructions took shape stood empty, like a stage between performances. There was nothing to solve.</image:caption>
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  </url>
  <url>
    <loc>https://www.gabrielvinas.com/on-looking/what-remains-part-3-the-veiled-eulogy</loc>
    <changefreq>monthly</changefreq>
    <priority>0.5</priority>
    <lastmod>2025-05-17</lastmod>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/63d6c49f5964db4f9031b26e/e8d17854-60d4-497e-a2a5-f55980fe57a5/Veiled+Child.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 3: The Veiled Eulogy</image:title>
      <image:caption>There it was, the half-finished reconstruction of the Taung Child lay before me—the 5th time I had attempted a new methodology on this specimen—a testament to years of scientific pursuit. I gazed at my skeletal Sisyphean boulder, rolled to the base of the hill yet again. This ancient child, whose fossilized remains had been hidden from us for 2.8 million years, represented both the progress of my scientific work and its inevitable incompleteness. The more precisely I measured, the more meticulously I sculpted, the more aware I became of what would forever remain unknown. The child's life, brief as it was, contained a multitude of experiences I could never reconstruct. It forced me to confront my fundamental questions more seriously: What constitutes a human? Is it the tapestry of muscles beneath their skin? Their vault of memories? Or perhaps their inherent vulnerabilities? These questions had driven me to employ mathematical equations and predictive models in attempts to anatomically resurrect beings from the distant past. While revealing statistically significant and scientifically relevant facts about their physical forms, the endeavor of employing statistical models in the act of sculpting their portraits also highlighted the limitations of scientific methods in capturing exactitude and accurate representations of their faces. More sharply, it made clear that the enigmatic facets of human existence—the emotions, thoughts, and unique individual experiences of these beings—are unlikely to be known or calculated using equations and statistical analysis. This thought, that the object of my artistic and academic search was likely unattainable, felt like a profound loss. I moved through stages of grief for this decade-long pursuit—first denying the limitations, then raging against them, bargaining for some compromise between scientific precision and human understanding, sinking into the melancholy of recognition, and finally arriving at a reluctant acceptance. It was the death of a goal that had structured my days and given meaning to my work. As with any death, the body has to be taken care of, ritualized perhaps, and laid to rest. This ritual became my piece: La Piedad.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 3: The Veiled Eulogy</image:title>
      <image:caption>Drawing from my own cultural background—the Christianity of my youth—I turned to one of the most iconic images of grief and tenderness in Western art: Michelangelo's Pietà. The parallel seemed fitting. Just as Mary cradles the dead Christ in the traditional iconography, I would sculpt an Australopithecus mother holding the Taung Child. This would be no anatomical reconstruction, but rather a meditation on loss that attempts to transcend time and species. As I worked on the clay model, my mind shifted from contemplating universal loss to confronting the inevitable specific losses I would face if I lived long enough. It bears repeating: If you're lucky enough, dear reader, to stay healthy enough, live long enough, your reward will be to lose nearly everyone you currently hold dear.</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/63d6c49f5964db4f9031b26e/43e3a2dc-4c80-4bff-94ca-7e151cd1bfcd/Lucy+desaturated.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 3: The Veiled Eulogy</image:title>
      <image:caption>As I sculpted this ancient child—this evidence of loss preserved across eons—my own impending loss sat purring in my lap. Her warm, pink skin with its delicate peach fuzz pressed against my hands, her visible ribs rising and falling with each breath, mirroring in their way the form of the Taung Child emerging from the clay. I felt closer to "knowing" my little hairless cat than I did my sculptural specimen I had attempted to sculpt various times. This was the first confrontation I had with the sense that I should pay clear attention to these fleeting moments I seem to take for granted. Lucy shared her life with me, and I with her since her birth when I adopted her from a stranger's house when I was in college. She had met and charmed every partner I have ever shared a room with, had traveled beyond state lines various times on my lap in various cars. So many rooms and moments I had with her, countless fleeting moments of pain and euphoria, and she remained a constant and unconditional presence in my life. In my mind there would be time to sculpt Lucy, to pay attention to her after this sculpture was carved in a few months time. Not knowing and unable to care or understand this silent promise I had made to sculpt her, Lucy came each day or night I worked on the model to partake in my company as I finished the work. Like the fleeting sensations of her rubbing on my chin, or the rising and falling rhythm of her breath on my lap, as I worked the beginnings of the lessons this piece would teach me took shape. I looked at the sculpture and back at her, she too is impermanent. "Caretake this moment." the words came to mind as if I was commanding myself to pause and see with gratitude.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 3: The Veiled Eulogy - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2025-04-20</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 1: Looking Back While Adrift</image:title>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 1: Looking Back While Adrift</image:title>
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    <image:image>
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      <image:title>On Looking - What Remains Part 1: Looking Back While Adrift</image:title>
      <image:caption>As this practice continued, I became so focused on the forms of my subjects that I began to want to peer behind them—to understand the mechanisms and structures that make the human face. This curiosity led me—at least for a time—away from observation-based portraits and toward the anatomical structures we all share. That shift came with an unplanned but growing love for the scientific method, and with it, a sense of awe at the worldview it revealed. Learning that all primates share essentially the same muscular and skeletal structure filled me with wonder: how deeply connected we are, not just to each other, but to our fellow non-human animals as well. This newfound appreciation for shared anatomy eventually led me to the fossilized remains of our distant anthropological antecedents—a collection of individuals who offered a rich and complex vision of what I began to think of as "non-human humanity." These beings lived in the beautiful grey area, beyond the neat boxes of race, nationality, creed, or even species. And so I began to sculpt them, too. Each a kind of frontier, not only in evolutionary terms but in my own search to understand what makes us human.</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2025-03-17</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - On Closing The Gap</image:title>
      <image:caption>However, like any child, he also needs discipline. Not the punishment of self-resentment, nor the rigidity of perfectionism, but a discipline rooted in guidance—the same way a father corrects his son, not to break him, but to shape him with care. The gap between who I am and who I want to be is not an enemy to be conquered. It is a child to be raised. What if, instead of resenting my shortcomings, I accepted them as part of the process? What if the discipline I seek isn’t about eradicating imperfection, but about shaping it—just as I reshape the clay form when it isn’t where it should be? Not expecting immediate perfection, but trusting that refinement comes through steady, patient work. Just as I would not scold a child for stumbling as he learns to walk, I should not resent the form for being unfinished—it only asks for steady hands to shape it. The gap may never close entirely. Perhaps it isn’t meant to. Perhaps it exists not as a flaw, but as a necessary space—the place where ambition and reality converse, where effort and grace meet. And if I can accept that, if I can walk that space with patience rather than frustration, then maybe the life I dream of and the life I have are not opposing forces, but collaborators in the same labors toward a common magnum opus. So I will keep shaping and renegotiating the forms, both in my art and in myself instead of focusing on the gap between what is and what "ought to be." And maybe, just maybe, the shaping itself is the result.</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2025-04-20</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - On He Who Attends - “What do you pay attention to?”</image:title>
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  <url>
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    <lastmod>2025-01-01</lastmod>
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      <image:title>On Looking - Begin Again</image:title>
      <image:caption>“The quality of our attention is all we have to offer others. Aim it wisely. Sculpting, recording, and gazing from life can be an intimate and incredibly meaningful exercise. If you draw, paint, or sculpt, regardless of your skill level, Take a moment sometime soon to record and bear witness to the life of someone you love. You're both here, now, until you're not. Cherish this brief time you have together in the sun.”</image:caption>
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