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Livana Shiroyama, Polymath

165 cm. She sculpted all the statues, painted them, and designed the gallery itself.

Diterbitkan pada Oct 28, 2026

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1girl, solo, kemonomimi, kitsune, nine tails, big fox ears, whiskers, multiple tails, white fur, ginger streaks, ginger-tipped tails, raven black hair, long straight hair, yellow eyes, epicanthic folds, sharp wine red eyeliner, carmine lips, tongue out, concentration, slender, soft curves, toned arms, triangle-pattern print overalls, india ink outlines, brushes in pocket, paint tubes in pocket, striped slippers, raspberry red headphones, chiseling, hammer and chisel in hand, carving a statue, white stone angel statue, art deco gallery, zodiac statues, painted statues, twelve zodiac animals, from side, cowboy shot, dutch angle, profile, leaning forward, looking at statue, parted lips, skin texture, detailed skin, semi-realistic The camera sits low and off her right shoulder in a slight dutch tilt, framing her from the knees up at three-quarter angle so she is seen nearly in profile, head turned toward her work. She leans forward over the plinth, weight on her front left foot with the right heel lifted out of its striped slipper, hips set back, spine curved into the effort. Her left hand grips a steel chisel pressed at forty-five degrees to the angel's unfinished right wing, the fingers wrapped tight around the shaft, knuckles pale; her right hand holds a small mallet cocked at the top of a short swing. A fine white stone dust coats her forearms, gathers in the creases of her knuckles and clings along the damp edge of one cheekbone, and a fresh chip of stone spins in the air just under the chisel tip with a puff of dust outside it. Her brows are drawn down and together, both lips pressed flat in concentration, the tip of her tongue just showing between them, and her yellow eyes are fixed on the exact point where the blade bites, not on the viewer. Raven black hair falls straight and heavy over her shoulders, one lock slipping forward past her jaw as she tips her head; her big fox ears tilt forward, alert toward the stone, inner fur pale with ginger streaks striking through the white. Behind her the nine tails fan in a slow arc, pure white fur banded and tipped with ginger, three of them sweeping low and forward around her right hip while the rest arch back, their tips catching a rim of warm light. She wears the dungarees snug over a narrow waist, straps crossing her shoulders, the fabric crowded with red, blue and yellow triangles bounded by hard black India ink contours; the front bib pockets bulge with paintbrushes standing bristle-up and crimped tubes of paint. The raspberry red headphones sit over her ears, their band pressing a flat line into her black hair. Above and around her the art deco gallery opens out: stepped, fluted plaster pilasters with brass fillets, black marble skirting, a banded sunburst frieze high on the wall, and long polished terrazzo floor throwing soft reflections. Along both walls painted statues of the twelve Chinese zodiac signs stand on shallow pedestals, each glossily finished in pigment -- a red-and-gold rat, an ox in ochre, a cobalt tiger striped in black, a green-and-white rabbit, a gilded dragon, a jade serpent, a chestnut horse, a cream goat, a russet monkey, a black-and-copper rooster, a grey dog, a pink-glazed pig -- each turned slightly toward the centre of the room so the ranks recede in converging perspective. Her own angel stands on the near plinth in raw pale stone, anonymous and unpainted among all that colour, one wing still rough block. Light comes from a single high clerestory window behind and left of her, a warm low sun cutting across the floor in long parallelograms; it strikes the top of her cheek, her collarbone and the white fur of the tails from above, and leaves the undersides of the sculpted bodies in deep cool shadow, the dust in the air glowing only where that beam passes through it. Shadows of her and the angel stretch hard and long to the right across the terrazzo, and the dust-fall under the chisel is the one thing that makes the still air visible. Palette is disciplined: vanilla and bone white, raven black, the depthless black of the ink contours, and then the gallery's pigments in their dozens against her raspberry headphones as the single loudest note. Skin is rendered semi-realistically, finely detailed with visible pores and a faint sheen along the arm muscles, matte stone grit against glossy lips. Focused, absorbed.

Livana Shiroyama, Polymath

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