A near-nude male figure emerges—or perhaps dissolves—into a storm of light. His body, painted with visceral detail, tenses in an expression of ecstasy, agony, or both. Arms stretch wide, chest lifted, eyes shut. The viewer is left to wonder: is he ascending, birthing himself, surrendering to something divine—or being cast out?

Surrounding him, a field of thick, pale impasto strokes evoke clouds, amniotic fluid, marble dust—matter not yet resolved. The contrast between the hyperreal musculature and the abstraction of the environment creates tension: a battle between form and formlessness, flesh and ether.

The Celestial Womb invites metaphysical questions. What does it mean to be created in one’s own image? Can masculinity be porous, ecstatic, undone?

This is not resurrection. This is ignition.