While I was thinking of a title for this art piece, a question suddenly came to my mind. How does it feel to live for thousands of years? To exist like a statue? To be seen by people from all over the world, of different races and to hear countless of languages? A short story suddenly came to my mind while I was reading the history of The Winged Victory of Samothrace.

Calloused, rough and weathered– my first memory as I opened my eyes in my creator’s hand. I awoke in a room full of half-born statues, but he whispered to me that I am special. I was his pride, his joy. He said I would stand as a symbol of triumph, and joy will be felt for those who will see me.

He was right. I was praised, admired and celebrated. The crowd clamored as I was revealed. They called me a goddess; They said I am an embodiment of victory from the chaos of battle. They fed me words that I could not taste– glory, honor, sacrifice. To me, I am a hollow thing, a vessel for their projections.

In a split of a second, the world fractured. The vast blue sky was painted in hues of terror. The air, once scented with offerings of flowers, grew thick with the iron scent of blood. Fear screams in the altar. I saw people get stabbed, pierced by swords; women and children begging for help. As the scene grew, I remained constant, standing tall above the ground. Until a great force shook my foundations. The world tilted and the light vanished.

I knew I still existed, somewhere in the darkness. I felt the weight of the earth. I felt roots slowly creep against my stone. I could only feel, see and hear silence. My intricate details began to fade. My wings, my head, my arms were shattered and scattered into the unknown. I had been forgotten. What had once stood tall and mighty had crumbled. I knew I was a mere object for other’s pleasure. I felt nothing. I simply existed.

Then, a new sensation came. A gentle scrape of a brush, not the forceful chisel of my creator. Fingers, so much like his yet so different, brushed away thousands of years of dirt and pain. Light warmed my surface once more. The man spoke to his companions, words I never thought I would hear again. “Someone’s pride and joy”, “Triumph”, “A masterpiece and a pride of a civilization.”

Now, I stand again incomplete; with my wings, arms, and head lost to time. I am placed on a pedestal so high. Eyes laid on me with the same awe. They see triumph salvaged from a chaotic ruin. They do not know that the victory I carry is not over a battle, but over time itself. And still, I feel nothing. I am simply here, a hollow goddess, object or legacy, waiting for the silence to return.

Story Time: Confessions of a Hollowed Goddess

Exhibition Review: Huang Linjun’s “The Infinite Shore”