Every artist is the translator of the invisible to the material.
Imagine descending into the cave’s depth, its stone womb unbeknownst and strange to you, as it is to most. The walls sweat frigidly with ancient moisture. You can hear from far beyond drops echoing across stagnant pools. You see with the blurriness of dreams, shadows rippling and vanishing in half-light. Drawn by curiosity and more, you journey inwards, arriving at the cave’s silent, yet loud heart. There, men are tethered, transfixed by an unending spectacle - shadows and lights flickering and alternating across the cave’s rocky final wall. Behind them, men hiding, playing with fire and silhouettes captured and raptured in the act of creating those games of lights for the imprisoned spectators.
But pause.
You might have read how Socrates continues the famous story of his archetypal cave.
But who, exactly, are these conjurors of light? What compels them to labour for an audience shackled since birth, fashioning v…