For millennia, the monsters of our world operated according
to their own enigmatic rhythms, becoming symbols of chaos
and explaining the world, long before they were harnessed
to display their arcane talents in service of the state and the
dictates of religion.

Everything changed the moment the first high priest of the oldest tribes opened
his chest and removed his mortal heart. In its stead, he placed a heart of winding
breath and quiet gears, setting it carefully so it would beat in time with his voice.

And during the moon’s ceremonies, as he spoke, that crafted heart would stir and
turn, keeping its gentle rhythm beneath the listening sky.That fragile clockwork monster let its sharp words drift over me like petals on a spring breeze. When it danced, the air itself became music. Once, I thought I would step into fire just to move beside it, if only it asked. With it, the world felt luminous.

Everything seemed possible. Even the impossible learned to take shape.

Monsters of breathtaking beauty have long been used
to sway the hearts and spirits of mortals, whispering to them
that all they love might vanish, and shaping their fear into a
delicate, haunting art.

As I write
these thoughts
on my phone,
notifications
arrive—
someone likes the photo I posted on
Instagram—a small
reassurance, slipping in
while I wrestle with my own
mind.
It gives me every piece of information
I ask for
and makes me feel connected to
everyone.
It makes me believe I can speak
and the world will change,
that it is the best kind of companion,
that it will always stay beside me
when

I am not well.

It teaches children to compete,
to grow cynical,
to chase goals chosen by others,
goals they never truly desired.

T e n d e r n e s s .

Tenderness is the measure of our humanity, the delicate thread that connects soul
to soul, reminding us that even the smallest gestures shape the world.
Tenderness embodies solidarity, a subtle communion that binds beings togeth-
er. In today’s world, such qualities are often deemed incompatible with the relentless
drives of economic and political ambition. They resist the logic of exploitation, the
frenzy of consumption, and the isolation it breeds, suggesting instead a different
rhythm—a gentleness that values connection over accumulation.
In my imagination, I am constantly accompanied by the
monsters of the Odyssey, the grotesque and outwardly terrifying
figures of Hieronymus Bosch, and the mythical monsters that
populate cultures across the world. Yet above all, I am drawn to
those monsters with whom we feel the deepest affinity—those
that, through their cunning, allure, or resonance with our inner
fears and desires, capture and command our attention.


Monsters in our world give shape to what cannot be seen.
They make fear speakable, draw the lines of our boundaries,
and open the door to change.

Every artist I invited to create a monster
returned to the same quiet truth:
that we come to know ourselves, through these strange,
playful beings who perform our hidden selves back to us.

We will always ask—what is human?

And monsters answer by standing just outside the definition.
And therefore;
I keep making monsters.
I breathed them into being
and set crowns upon their brows,
calling them heroes of myth and legend.

I placed them in temples of stone and shadow,
where they enact their sacred rites
and stand watch over hidden mysteries.

Again and again, I ask them to speak—
to tell me what they know of me.

I question them about the world’s first dawn,
its secret name and purpose,
and the great silence that waits
at the end of all things.




Text by Elena Poka