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Portraits & Figures

Expressive portraits and figurative works exploring emotion, identity, and the human form.

Self Portrait (2026)

This self-portrait marks an uneasy beginning rather than a declaration. Cox does not present herself as resolved, symbolic, or idealised; instead, she paints from a position of reluctance. The work exists because looking became unavoidable.

Caution Is Not Care (2025)

Caution Is Not Care reflects the internalisation of being treated as a danger rather than a person. Wrapped in warning tape, often a visual language borrowed from crime scenes and hazardous zones, the figure becomes something to be avoided, managed, or contained. The tape does not protect her; it marks her body as a risk.

Deer Logic (2025)

In Deer Logic, Cox examines the instinctive stillness of fear — the moment when the body, faced with threat, chooses not to fight or flee but to freeze. The figure, crouched and lit by a faint, divine glow, raises antlers to her head in a futile act of identification: if she becomes the deer, perhaps she will understand its survival. Or perhaps she will learn how to surrender.

Do Not Touch the Holy Thing (2025)

In Do Not Touch the Holy Thing, Georgina M. Cox explores the fragility of reverence and the boundaries between sanctity and possession. The painting presents a woman gazing downward, her face bathed in low, amber light, her hands cradling a glass anatomical heart. Its translucent surface reveals veins and chambers rendered with exquisite precision, both beautiful and unsettling. The viewer is immediately drawn to the title’s tension: holiness here is not divine in the ecclesiastical sense, but in the deeply human act of self-preservation.

The Sacred Feeling of Living in a Body I Wish Wasn't Mine (2025)

In The Sacred Feeling of Living in a Body I Wish Wasn’t Mine, Georgina M. Cox turns the gaze inward, confronting the tension between embodiment and estrangement. A nude woman lies on her side, asleep or perhaps in a state of suspended surrender. The chiaroscuro lighting, Cox’s signature, renders her flesh luminous and tender, resisting objectification. Her body occupies the space unapologetically, heavy with presence, yet the title destabilizes that serenity: to live within this body is both a sacred act and a form of grief.

Where Roses Take Root (2025)

Where Roses Take Root is a visceral exploration of beauty’s relationship to suffering, an image that is both tender and macabre. A young woman, eyes closed and lips parted as if caught between breath and surrender, blooms from within. Blood and roses spill from her chest in the same motion, indistinguishable from one another. The petals appear to pulse where her heart once was.

Velatura (2025)

Velatura, titled after the painting technique meaning “veil,” is a meditation on vulnerability, surrender, and the act of disarming oneself. A woman stands barefoot before discarded armour: a breastplate, gauntlets, and helmet resting in the dust. Her back, softly illuminated, turns away from the viewer; the drapery slipping from her shoulders suggests both exposure and relief.

Glass Orchard (2025)

In Glass Orchard, the familiar Edenic image of temptation is reimagined through fragility rather than sin. A woman stands beneath the boughs of a dark, glimmering tree, her gaze fixed on a translucent apple suspended in air. Its surface catches the dying light like molten gold — beautiful, untouchable, and breakable. Her fingers hover close but never make contact.

Soft Apocalypse (2025)

In Soft Apocalypse, the end of the world arrives quietly, not with fire or ruin, but with melancholy stillness. A barefoot woman in a faded pink dress sits sidesaddle on a white horse amid an abandoned car park. The evening sky burns faintly gold against bruised clouds, and a broken shopping trolley filled with wilted flowers leans beside her. Everything around her feels touched by both decay and grace.

Handle With Care (2025)

Handle With Care portrays fragility in its quietest, most literal form. A woman in a pale dress lies curled inside a cardboard box lined with bubble wrap, her body folded to fit the space. Her head rests against the cardboard wall as if it were a pillow, her feet just brushing the edge of light. On the box’s side, a small printed label reads: Handle With Care.

We Were Happy Once, Weren't We? (2025)

We Were Happy Once, Weren’t We explores the quiet grief of outgrown intimacy, the aftermath of giving someone everything and being left behind. Two young women sit on a picnic blanket beneath soft spring light, their pastel dresses glowing with nostalgia. Yet the tenderness fractures: one figure’s face is pixelated, her identity eroded into digital noise, and a jagged crack runs between their joined hands. What should be a pastoral moment of friendship becomes a portrait of absence, of one still reaching, and one already gone.

Mothlight (2025)

Mothlight captures the fragile quiet of illumination, the kind that flickers softly at the edge of darkness. A pale figure, her skin ghostly under a cold blue glow, stands surrounded by white moths that seem both alive and spectral. Their wings scatter faint light across her face, catching her in a moment between awakening and disappearance. Her gaze drifts somewhere unseen, detached yet transfixed, as if she has become part of the very light she’s drawn to.

Growing Pains (2025)

Growing Pains captures the unbearable intimacy of transformation. A woman collapses onto the ground, her body arched between agony and rapture as black tendrils erupt from her back. The forms, half-organic, half-fluid, twist upward like living extensions of her suffering. The lighting, steeped in ochre and shadow, isolates her figure within a space that feels both sacred and sickly.

Leak (2025)

Leak is perhaps Cox’s most viscerally arresting piece; a confrontation with the collapse of silence. A woman stares outward, mouth open in a soundless scream, as a torrent of black fluid pours from her throat and down her body. Her hand, trembling yet insistent, forces the substance upward, as though she’s both the victim and the source of her own purge. Her skin glows in muted amber light, making the act feel holy, obscene, and utterly human all at once.

Meat For The Gods (2025)

Meat for the Gods reimagines the classical banquet scene as an altar of quiet defiance. Five women recline in dim candlelight, their skin rendered with the rich chiaroscuro of Baroque devotion. The central figure meets the viewer’s gaze directly, a pomegranate, split, rotting, and bleeding black, resting in her hand. Around her, the others sleep or feign death, their bodies half-swallowed by crimson drapery and fruit turned to ash.

Preburn (2025)

Preburn captures the moment before annihilation. A woman stands bound at the wrists, her arms raised above her head as figures gather around her. One holds a torch, another a brush dipped in pitch, another steadies her arm with quiet precision. Her face is calm yet resolute, her floral crown still intact, her white dress absorbing the ochre light like a wick ready to ignite. The painting is suffocating in its stillness, heavy with the knowledge of what will come next.

Obedient Creature (2025)

Obedient Creature marks one of the most quietly devastating works in The Damnation Project. A woman sits enthroned in dim light, her face mournful, her hands poised in reluctant benediction. She wears a gown woven from straw, bones, and decay—an imitation of sanctity rather than its embodiment. From her head sprout faint, lamb-like ears, transforming her into both offering and idol. Around her stand four faceless attendants, their features erased into submission, hands hovering as if awaiting instruction or absolution.

Think Pretty Thoughts (2025)

In Think Pretty Thoughts, Cox stages a chilling inversion of pastoral serenity. A young woman stands in muted light, her head delicately opened like a flower pot, blossoms and roots replacing her mind. Her expression is peaceful, almost devotional, as a shadowed figure behind her pours a black, tar-like substance into the wound. In his other hand, he holds a skull half-filled with the same matter—both vessel and warning.

Communion of The Damned (2025)

Communion of the Damned transforms the sacred act of unity into a ritual of decay. At the centre stands a woman with hollowed eyes streaming black tears, her hands cupped in offering as a thick, tar-like substance seeps through her fingers. Around her, six others encircle in quiet devotion, reaching, touching, almost worshipping, each one marked by the same contagion. What should be a scene of grace and salvation instead becomes one of shared corruption.

What Did You Expect? (2025)

What Did You Expect is an unflinching portrait of consequence. The figure, poised in chiaroscuro light, seems to confront the viewer directly, her expression caught between accusation and exhaustion. Black resinous veins coil around her arms and throat, seeping into the cracks of her skin and stitching her mouth in silence. Yet her eyes, dark, lucid, unyielding, speak volumes.

We Must Not Speak of It (2025)

We Must Not Speak of It is one of the most arresting and politically charged pieces within The Damnation Project. Six women, their faces eerily similar, press their hands over their mouths. The gesture, half forced, half resigned, turns silence into ritual. Their skin is smeared with a black, tar-like substance that seeps from their fingers and lips, fusing them together in quiet revolt. Each figure appears mid-exhale, suffocating beneath the weight of something unspoken, as though the act of covering one’s mouth has become instinct rather than command.

She Was The First To See (2025)

She Was the First to See is one of the most hauntingly quiet works in The Damnation Project. The portrait depicts a young woman caught in a moment of unbearable recognition. Her expression is neither fear nor sorrow, but the fragile, stunned calm of someone who understands too much. Thick black tears streak down her face, an unmistakable motif in Cox’s lexicon of damnation.

Predation (2025)

Predation is a visual cacophony of hunger; human, animal, and divine. Wolves snarl beside corpses, serpents coil through skeletal throats, and crows tear at the remnants of flesh. The scene feels both apocalyptic and cyclical, as though this feeding has always been happening, just beyond the frame of human conscience.

Tenebris Solis (2025)

Tenebris Solis—Latin for “the darkened sun”—depicts a woman cradling a dying celestial body as though it were a lover or a relic. The sun’s surface is cracked and stone-like, its face human, mournful, and collapsing inward, while her own blackened tears streak down to meet it. Together, they form an image of grief so luminous it almost burns.

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