The Fall dwells in the space between decay and fertility. A ribcage lays bare not just a skeleton but a memory of breath. Its hollowness now home to the remnants of fruit and root. The cycle of life is not romanticized; it is fractured, collapsed, composted into a new becoming.
Çınarsu Kurt assembles this visual anatomy as a meditation on fragility: life spilled across a ground that does not forgive, but receives. The pot in the upper corner, stubbornly sprouting green, becomes a quiet rebellion growth in the midst of entropy.
This is not still life. It is unstill death. The piece speaks of a bodily fall, a spiritual yielding, a slow surrender into the inevitable rotations of time. In The Fall, decomposition is not the end. It is the threshold of something unnamed yet already alive.