Column series

Bearing the weight of millennia, Roman columns rise as silent poets of antiquity. Their fluted bodies, carved with the precision of starlight, trace vertical odes to human ambition and divine harmony. Each Doric austerity, Ionic scroll, and Corinthian acanthus whispers of empires that sought immortality in marble—a geometry of power softened by lichen and twilight, where shadows pool like spilled ink in the grooves of history.

To run a hand along a Roman column is to trace the spine of civilization itself. These towering sentinels, crowned with capitals like petrified clouds, stretch upward as if straining to bridge earth and Olympus. Sunlight fractures across their weathered surfaces, transforming stone into liquid gold, while their rhythmic repetition mirrors the heartbeat of forums and temples—structures that dared to frame infinity in a grid of proportion and grace.

Between the columns, the air hums with absence. These cylindrical monoliths, once robed in polychrome grandeur, now stand as pale guardians of empty space. Their entasis—a subtle swell—betrays the secret of their endurance: perfection lies not in straightness, but in the illusion of it. Like fossilized breath, they hold the memory of processions and prayers, their shadows stitching tapestries of light and dark across pavements where gods and mortals once tread in concert.