D/∆S·28

The DAS-28 is a clinical score. Twenty-eight joints pressed and counted, inflammation measured, a number between zero and nine point four that tells a doctor how hard the body is fighting itself. A war in decimals. Here it gives the work its name.

CØRPUS D∆TUM takes the artist's own clinical record and turns it into flesh — a 3D body sculpted by blood tests, inflammation markers, pain, therapy, flares, the vitals of every day. Acute inflammation burns and swells the joints, opens blades, makes them drip. Chronic damage cracks the chest and fills the cracks with gold. Therapy cools the body down toward remission. Heart, lungs, liver — every organ follows the test that watches over it. Behind it, a constellation of blood cells. Below it, a walker, a swimmer, and an odometer counting the kilometres the body really covered.

Nothing is forgotten. Every test, every episode stays in the archive, and the sculpture is rebuilt from all of it, every time. A worsening leaves a wound in red; an improvement, a graft in gold. A flare burns and passes. What it breaks stays broken. Inflammation is not a statistic here. It is a form. A figure that carries its own history of damage and persistence.

The values stay inside the body. What comes out is a score, not a record — every reading translated into the language of the sculpture: flame, sting, scar, balm, blood, swarm, bile, breath, fever, shadow, glow. Weights in tenths, blurred by the week, the days dissolved. When the artist decides to declare a reading, it surfaces as a relic: real, burned on the way, half of it lost to the dark. Exposure is a choice, not a default.

Five ways to look. BODY is the whole ruin. HEAD, TORSO, PELVIS and LIMBS pull the eye inside and turn the flesh to film — bone, brain, eyes, organs, lit up like an x-ray. In the hands the fingers bend one by one, the way rheumatoid arthritis bends them.

Up close, every symptom is a glitch, right where it lives. Inflammation datamoshes the joints. Pain sorts their pixels. Anaemia drains the body into dither. Fever makes the image tremble. The bug is in the body, and the image catches it. But the body answers back. Walking, swimming, sleep, a good day — they leave light behind: a line runs through the image and repairs it. The light fades in a few days if nothing feeds it. The scars stay.

Deeper down, the blood speaks other languages. The kidneys glow when the filter slows. Sugar pools as honey in the torso. The antibodies ripple out of the joints, an echo of the war the body keeps fighting against itself.

Some things move too slowly to see in a single week. The work reads the direction of every value across the months — what rises in silence, what sinks — and lets it run behind the body as an undertow. No threshold, no alarm, no name for it. Just the drift.

Beside the body, the week becomes a report. The cold grammar of the clinic, bent into verse, broken by the same noise that runs through the flesh.

We are nothing more than our body. This is a work about a body whose immune system is out of control and has to be kept under control — a defence turned against its own house, striking the joints it was made to protect. About living inside a body that doesn't cooperate. About the chronic condition as a creative condition. About making something out of the data of your own dissolution.

The Control is private — the artist plays it. A new reading goes in, and within seconds the body changes. At its centre, a short verdict written by an AI from two numbers only — how inflamed, how damaged — or pulled from lines already written. No explanation. No apology. An ABOUT panel inside the work shows how to read it.