A ray of light, piercing the darkness, shines over what tethers the present to the past. An ouroboros slithers over the crumbling fragments of one of mankind’s many monuments, carrying bread and wine to a huddled family of faces gazing straight into a hallowed sun. To Ryan Jara, these ebbs and tides of thirst are part and parcel of a cycle embedded in history, moving imperceptibly, but shifting nonetheless.

While mortals are unlikely sentinels, in “Through This Hallowed Aperture I Gaze”, Jara brushes away the dust of centuries. Like a palm impaled on a nail, bodies and objects fuse in a timeless dance of a longing never to be expunged from the depths of their being. After all, what is hushed is bound to resurface, whether through fractures in the glass of a vitrine or a shuddering relic. The relentless scrutiny of light can leave one blind if taken for granted. 

Even if this archetypal opening to an ambered lens yawns with a somber rumble, there are whispers that can survive centuries of being buried. In the postmortem of a beast of burden laid to rest, the weight of its history is often far more than the sum of its parts. Then it’s a matter of passing time until the thorns return for another feast.