Rachamim is a meditation on maternal compassion — a tenderness born not of sentimentality, but of embodiment. The Hebrew word, rooted in rechem, meaning “womb,” holds within it the layered experience of holding, burden, memory, and mercy.

The left panel draws from the tradition of the Descent from the Cross — not in direct depiction, but in posture and weight. The child, sleeping in dinosaur pajamas, is heavy in the mother’s arms. She carries him to bed with the reverence and fatigue of daily ritual, echoing the gestures of lamentation while remaining firmly rooted in the domestic and ordinary. The right panel mirrors this tenderness, but introduces a subtle rupture: a third arm enters the composition, resting on the mother and child. Its origin is uncertain. Is it the mother’s own arm, doubled in effort? Is it a supportive presence — or an intrusion? The ambiguity invites questions of help, harm, and the porousness of care.

In these panels, I explore the dualities of presence and absence, weight and warmth, devotion and grief. Rachamim is not only a depiction of care, but an invocation — a way of holding the body and spirit in the same breath.