This piece was commissioned by a poet, to be my interpretation of his poem, 'Old Skin.' It took on many forms before I settled on its final incarnation...a 4 ft by 6 ft shadow box with Plexiglass front. The large dripping fleshy painting of a filled out torso sits at the back of the box and is outlined by nails hammered into its silhouette. Painted onto the Plexiglass, floating above the body are depictions of viruses and cancer growth, with holes drilled in their centers. Through the holes are silk strings tied in place by knots. I wanted to illustrate this poem by describing the ways in which sickness and disease are not innately part of the body, they are parasites which can be expelled from the host by way of making the internal world inhospitable to their growth. It is not a clean or mechanical process though. It is a messy, sweat driven, organic process to health.

Following is Barry's poem, 'Old Skin':

A virus is not alive, cancer has no life

They have no cells; no living organ

They are cruel misplaced thorns of death

Working their way into the flow of life

I saw the skin of a snake on the road

I saw the shell of a crab on the beach

They had been abandoned by life, cast away

Let for newness, a casting of the past

Old armor, rusted, encrusted and restrictive

Waiting for an unwitting to adorn in amusement

I saw shackles tied to a wall, function far removed

I saw braces for limbs, obsolescent and useless

They had been let lie and of no purpose

Lifeless mechanics of fear and hate

Tools that bid the bidder; a due

Not knowing time, someone will succumb

I crawled in old armor, useless in days of light

I draped in dead skin, rays burned through

I struggled, my movements controlled by relics

Cloaked and restrained, my heart began to race

My brow drenched in sweat and joints bleeding

I fought to move, thrashed for my soul

I crawled into the unassuming lure of fear

I draped the coat of envy, every seasons fashion

By miracle, god gave respite, stillness

They fell, fell to the ground; only by calmness

A gnarled heap, skin and shackles of hell

I stood naked and pink in skin rubbed new

I walked away from this pile, seemingly harmless

Heaped of gossip, a curious mess upon the ground

I know someone will cross it, wear it

I also dare not carry it, everyman must discard it

my skin is tender from the pain, but fresh

I can move my limbs, I can reach and be reached

-Barry Christy