Anette Bley is a master of understatement. She is a draftsman, painter, illustrator, author and lecturer. She condenses her sculptures to the bare essentials. In her children’s books she tells of painful feelings and the world of music with a fine line.
There are two arms, tight-skinned and muscular, you can guess the power that is in them. The left arm bends upwards, the hand clasps just where the neck would be. But there is no neck, let alone a head. The right hand reaches down, holding the rounded structure into which the fragmentary body without legs ends. It is as if the torso existed solely for the sake of the arms and hands; and the arms and hands, in turn, would have only one purpose: to encircle the torso protectively.