Each spike is a point where I stopped apologizing for my shape
There are days when I cannot bear softness.
Not because I am hard, but because I am real.
And reality, at times, grows thorns.
Not to wound — but to hold its shape.
Sculptural spikes entered my work without asking.
They didn’t knock. Simply appeared — unapologetic, elemental.
As if they knew something I hadn’t yet learned:
that form can protect without hiding, resist without anger, exist without permission.
I don’t create spikes to shock.
I create them because smoothness sometimes lies.
Because beauty isn’t always what flatters —
sometimes, it’s what confronts you with itself and refuses to explain.
I don’t create sharpness — I just no longer smooth it down.
There is a deep sensuality in sharpness.
Not the erotic kind, not the sentimental kind —
but the kind that says:
I feel everything, and I will not collapse under the weight of that feeling.
Sculptural spikes are not armor.
They are language.
Punctuation marks in clay and paper and breath.
They say: Here I am. And yes, I might pierce you — but only if you come too fast, too careless, too entitled.
I don’t need to be soft to be kind. I need to be real.
In a world that wants women to soften, to round their edges,
I let mine rise.
Not to fight — but to stay intact.
And the most intimate thing I’ve learned?
That the spike is not opposite to the hand.
It is a part of it.
A gesture. A truth.
And if you listen — truly listen —
you’ll find it’s not screaming.
It’s simply standing.
Left here gently, for whoever needed to read
— Natalia
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