They stand in silence.

Forms that seem to breathe, to lean, to hesitate.

They recall bodies, gestures, the memory of closeness—

yet something remains withheld.

There is a softness in their movement,

a suggestion of tenderness,

as if they might reach toward one another,

or receive a touch.

But they do not.

What appears inviting is guarded.

What seems near remains distant.

Every surface carries the quiet tension

between desire and protection.

The title, Liebkosungen, speaks of caress—

of a gentle, intimate gesture,

of closeness that asks for trust.

And yet, here, touch is uncertain.

Perhaps even impossible.

These forms do not reject.

They endure.

They wait.

And somewhere within them lies the question:

How close can we come

without being hurt?