A selected print and book — current offerings from the Gallery and Library.

A lost city sleeps in the jungle, its thresholds carved with serpents — not ornament, but law. This vow-poem enters love as sacred hunger: desire as guardianship, devotion as possession, the body speaking without language. A liturgy of heat, roots, rain, and the terrible tenderness of being claimed.

A true spirituality does not demand answers. It demands integrity. In a world starving for depth, Woo sells comfort disguised as wisdom — replacing reverence with invention. But the sacred is not built from claims. It is built from attention, restraint, and the courage to say, with clean humility: we don’t know for sure.

Most lives do not collapse. They thin. They become functional, organised, reasonable—until the soul forgets what a life is for. Meaning is not granted. It is built: through illness, through love, through art, through grief—through the slow discipline of fidelity, and the choice of a centre that will not be betrayed.

A boundary is drawn, and suddenly what was always present becomes “nothing.” This is one of the oldest spells: definition posing as neutrality, metaphor disguising jurisdiction, emptiness manufactured so extraction can begin. To resist is to attend—to name rightly, to refuse the comfort of false clarity, and to honour the world’s gradients.