Neha Sharma
At first glance, these are just moments — goats on a street, goats in the field, a cyclist in the distance — but something far more compelling emerges when we fix our gaze not at the centre, but through the spaces between the legs.
These frames don’t just capture subjects; they force us to adopt a liminal point of view — a view that is partial, fragmented, and yet deeply human. It is a way of seeing the world through constraints, both literal and symbolic.
Image I: Through the Moving CrowdThe first image places us low — nearly ground-level — behind a line of walking legs. Here, goats pass by almost invisibly, like everyday shadows in the human rhythm of a busy street. The legs become gates — transitional spaces between the visible and the unnoticed. We, as observers, are placed awkwardly — not invited, but peeking — questioning who gets visibility in this world.
Image II: Through the Branches Like LimbsNow the viewpoint shifts, but still keeps us between the legs, this time of a tree. What once was human becomes organic. The goats now stand distant — separated, and framed. They no longer follow anyone. They simply exist. But even here, the perspective traps us: we are looking through again.
Image III: The Ultimate DistanceThe final frame is haunting. A bicycle moves far across a barren seascape. In the foreground, gnarled roots curve like the legs of something ancient, stretching but unmoving. The journey happens far away, but we are left behind. Once more, we witness the world from between the limbs — stuck at the threshold between movement and memory. It’s no longer just a point of view. It becomes a condition — of watching, waiting, remembering.