A totem of teapots rises like a precarious memory-stack, each vessel glowing with ember-like interiors that suggest warmth held in reserve and stories steeped over time. The velvety, bruised palette—plums, rusts, and deep cobalt—pushes forward against a scraped, weathered ground, where the surface reads like a wall of erased notes and lingering traces. Fine, vein-blue lines stitch the pots together, turning domestic familiarity into a network of fractures and repairs, as if intimacy itself is what binds—and threatens to unravel—the arrangement. In this quiet tower, comfort becomes ritual, and ritual becomes a fragile architecture of endurance.