It slips through ages and narratives, across canvas and stone — always bearing rupture, transformation, passage. Ayeka ( איכה ) — “Where are you?” — is the first question addressed to man in the Book of
Genesis, after Adam and Eve have eaten the forbidden fruit. But this question doesn’t seek a location: it calls forth an inner state. Where are you? Where are you in your ability to look within yourself? The vertical form of the work becomes an axis of interpellation: the gaze is invited to rise — to adopt an active, almost spiritual posture — like the Hebrews in the desert, facing the bronze serpent raised by Moses. The snake’s shed skin becomes a witness to what once was, and the absence of the body — the serpent itself — intensifies the symbolic charge of the question. What we’re looking at is a trace, a remainder, a relic — and it is precisely this void that reflects us back to our own presence. By posing the question of Ayeka, the work does not reveal — it asks. It becomes a spoken address, a call. In this process, the viewer is not just looking — they are being looked at by the question. Although rooted in an ancestral biblical narrative, this interpellation carries urgent relevance today — in the face of war, violence, and self-destruction. It transcends time to ask us: Where are you, in your responsibility to confront your own destructive impulses? Where are you, in your ability to rise above your primal instincts and choose transformation? Where are you, in your own shedding — your own becoming?