Entering the gallery space feels like intruding on a private ritual, detached from the energy of the street outside. At the entrance stand the guardians of the temple — a row of female figures, reflections of the artist herself. Stern, defiant, and imposing. One must pass between them to reach the very heart of the ritual.

A woman jumps. A woman strains. Her breath is fragmented. A woman tries to fly, to rise above the chaos, above the heaviness. The tips of her fingers peck at the floor, the sound of the pecking echoing like irregular heartbeats: fast, fast, slow, slow, fast… Morning turns to afternoon, to evening, to night — and the figure is still immersed in the Sisyphean, pathetic attempt, as the rhythm of the tapping persists…

Dreams of greatness within the mundanity of a messy living room.

An act — small, ridiculous, futile.

The exhibition features three bodies of work, all populated by doubles of the artist’s own figure. At times, they are in constant, circular motion — destroying and recreating one another, searching for balance. At other times, they are still, stable, rooted in the ground.

Lior’s works raise questions: about representations of the female body, about fluid identity, about who is observing whom, about circular (feminine?) movement versus active, vertical, upward-striving (masculine?) movement. About art as play, and the importance of not taking everything too seriously — of letting it be accompanied by a small smile.