Regina RzaevaRoom in a Spoon (2026)

Two elongated forms, a fork and a spoon, rise along the full height of the canvas, and their scale tips them from tableware into something closer to monuments. At the top, where the metal catches the light, the surfaces gleam with a near-photographic precision: a black, fractured reflection cuts through the bowl of the spoon, as if an entire room had been compressed into its curve. Below, the handles begin to dissolve. Their contours soften into pale, milky veils of ivory and faint green, and the objects seem to withdraw into the linen itself, remembered rather than seen. The painting holds two states of being at once, the sharp present of reflection and the slow fading of recollection. Spatial logic wavers. It is unclear whether the viewer looks at the objects, into them, or through them, and the scale shifts between the intimate and the architectural. In this hushed, vertical stillness, ‘Room in a Spoon’ asks where memory resides: whether in the things we hold or in the reflections they keep.