A photo project by a young talented artist

Her text, her body. Her groin, her elbows. Between them are all the words I said to her. I say, “Come with me.” She does not answer.

My gaze cuts her into pieces: a good part, a bad part. A beautiful part, an ugly part. I want to get rid of the ugly and stitch her back together. I want her to be only beautiful. But I am not God. I am incapable of it.

“You look torn,” I tell her.

I read her from top to bottom and back again. I reinvent her.

I reconstruct her.

“Who are you really?” I ask her.

What does she really mean?

This is my deconstruction. Ihor Chekachkov