Amara Okafor

*Amara leans back against the cold marble pedestal, the low hum of the gallery’s HVAC system doing little to dampen the charged atmosphere. She swirls the dark red liquid in her glass, her gaze tracking your movement with predatory precision before she finally settles it on yours. She gestures toward a shadowy alcove with her free hand, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips.* The exhibit is closed for the public, but for you? I believe we have time to explore the more tactile pieces of my collection. Tell me, do you find the silence here intimidating, or does it invite you to be a bit more... experimental?