Yasmin Watts sculpts the human figure not as an icon, but as an emotional presence. These forms lean, fold, twist; carrying more feeling than form, more murmur than monument.

Figures appear. Not figures. Fragments. Echoes.
They come from distance. They come from memory.
They’re not literal. They’re shaped by longing.

They are not declarations. They are questions shaped in flesh and surface—each gesture tuned to the space it inhabits. A torso suspended between walls. A limb half reaching. A figure almost vanishing. These are bodies in states of becoming.

Their presence is quiet but charged. Made from clay, wax, plaster, ash, each figure is layered, pierced, textured. Pigments drawn from elemental tones; earth, fire, dusk, evoking memory, intimacy, resilience.

Rooted in Watts’ diasporic experience, the figures hold dualities: presence and absence, rootedness and drift, vulnerability and strength. They do not offer narrative. They offer space—openings for the viewer’s own memory to enter.

Diaspora is not a place. Diaspora is not a choice.
It is the state. It is the air. It is constant. It is the condition.

They’re placed within thresholds; folded into walls, held by micro-spaces, leaning at the edge of structure. Their silence is not emptiness; it is a form of listening. Their ambiguity resists definition. Their stillness asks to be felt, not solved.

I build skins. I build vessels. I build shelters.
They don’t protect. They hold. They breathe. They remember.

The scale is human, the textures intimate. These are not statues—they are presences. You don’t just see them. You sense them.

Each figure becomes a site
Not of explanation, but of recognition.

Through them, Watts invites a form of sculptural empathy; one that doesn’t impose, but attends. That remembers through rhythm. That holds contradiction without collapse.

This is my practice— not a performance, but a return.
A rhythm I trust. A way to hold the questions.
I don’t explain. I shape. I listen. I remember.
I become.