There is a specific violence in being remembered only by your enemies. For the Minoans, history is a series of superimposed shadows; a vibrant, bull-worshipping culture flattened into cautionary tales and monstrous births. We view antiquity through a borrowed lens, prioritising
the victor’s heroic machine over the quiet rhythms of a sanctuary we no longer have the language to describe.
This pediment—a symbol of marble certainty—is here dismantled into five textile figures. By rendering these forms in wool, classical clinicality becomes a haptic monument. It is a refusal of fiction masked as fact, and an insistence on the softness of skin for those relegated to the
margins as adulterers, assistants, and cucks. To believe a bull-worshipping culture was ashamed of its own bull-prince is to swallow a narrative designed by conquerors and centuries of lazy writers. I am not a customer for that fiction.