Gisoo

Gisoo — 2022

This is where red entered my world. Not as a color. As a wound. As a war cry. As the blood of a moment that refused to be silent. When Mahsa fell, something ancient awakened — an archetype buried deep in the collective soul, older than any law, older than any wall built to silence a woman. And like all ancient rituals, it spread from body to body, from hand to hand, from blade to blade. The cutting of hair — once a sacred act of mourning — became rebellion. Became language. Became the loudest statement a human body could make without uttering a single word. In this work, the figure is not just a man. He is every man, every child, every soul of a land that finally said: enough. The bare chest, the branches that bind and break simultaneously, the red that bleeds through architecture steeped in centuries of culture — it is all one cry: The right to be free. The right to exist. The right to own your own body, your own gender, your own identity. Taboos shattered. Archetypes activated. A collective indictment written not in ink — but in severed locks and open hearts.

Woman. Life. Freedom.