How something, someone perhaps, crafted this, we have no idea. We look forward at the figure, and see ourselves there, too. That’s what all good art is made of: reflection. We see the skin, the limbs, the eyes, the organs. As we look, we touch our arms, our legs, thinking that if this piece of art can have such beauty, we can too. Something seemingly so simple yet infinitely complex stands before us. Responsible for all life, all wars, all love, all emotion: the human body stands as the eighth wonder of the world.

Yet after we leave the exhibit, we forget how special it is again, and we begin to stop taking care of ourselves as if we can all be given another life or two, knowing this body is our only one.