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Angkor was not founded once.
It was prepared, then moved, then fixed.
The reigns of Jayavarman II, Jayavarman III, and Indravarman I established the grammar of Khmer kingship: declaration, consolidation, standardisation. What remained was to release this grammar from its first enclosure and allow it to generate a city worthy of its scale.
That act belongs to Yashovarman I.
The capital at Hariharalaya was never intended as an endpoint. It was an open city, assembled incrementally, where architecture tested ideas rather than enforced them. Here, the triad matured: Indravarman I formalised the obligations of kingship—ancestor temple, state temple-mountain, public works—but these remained clustered, provisional, responsive to circumstance.
Yaśovarman I inherited not a finished capital, but a working model.
Before leaving, he honoured it. In 893 CE, he built Lolei, an ancestor temple placed deliberately on an island in the Indrataṭāka. For the first time, Mount Meru and the Cosmic Ocean were rendered with complete clarity: stone rising from water, genealogy anchored within cosmology. Only after this act of filial alignment did he depart.
Roluos had been fulfilled. It could now be left behind.
The move to Angkor was not merely strategic; it was cosmological. Yaśovarman I sought a landscape that could receive the triad without compromise—a place where geometry, elevation, water, and horizon could be brought into strict accord.
At Angkor, he found hills, rivers, and space.
His first act was hydraulic. The East Baray—Yaśodharataṭāka—dwarfed all earlier works. Eight times the scale of his father’s reservoir, it was not simply storage but proclamation: a new Sea of Milk, sanctified under the protection of Ganga, capable of feeding a capital conceived at imperial scale. Water was no longer adjunct to kingship; it was its visible measure.
Next came the mountain.
At the heart of the new city, Yaśovarman I crowned a natural hill with his state temple, Phnom Bakheng. This decision marked a profound shift. Where earlier kings had built Meru upward from the plain, Yaśovarman chose to recognise Meru where it already stood.
Phnom Bakheng was not only elevated; it was encoded. Its terraces, towers, and numbers mapped the heavens with unprecedented precision—108 subsidiary towers, 33 visible from each axis, cycles of months and planetary time folded into stone. At its centre stood the royal linga, Yaśodhareśvara, binding the king’s essence to Shiva at the exact midpoint of a four-kilometre square city.
For the first time, the Angkorian capital was no longer open or adaptive. It was fixed, aligned, and named: Yaśodharapura.
What Yaśovarman I achieved was not innovation, but completion. He took the triadic system forged at Roluos and transposed it whole into a new geography, free of inherited constraints. In doing so, he transformed a royal obligation into an imperial mandate.
From this point onward, Angkorian kings would not ask whether to build water, ancestors, and mountains. They would ask only how large, how refined, how aligned. The template had become territory.
Angkor proper begins here—not as an idea, but as a city that could no longer be moved.
Empires endure when their centres are no longer portable.
Yaśovarman I understood this—and set the axis in the ground.

1 min read
This poem listens to Angkor not as ruin, but as grammar—where moss, shadow, and proportion carry devotion forward without spectacle. What endures here is not glory, but measure: a way of standing that no longer needs witnesses.

3 min read
At harvest, the danger is not hunger but forgetting how to listen.
This folklore retelling speaks of drums struck for silence, of grain taken without gratitude, and of a narrow figure who does not punish—only waits. A tale of pacts made not with spirits, but with attention itself.

2 min read
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.
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Receive occasional letters from my studio in Siem Reap—offering a glimpse into my creative process, early access to new fine art prints, field notes from the temples of Angkor, exhibition announcements, and reflections on beauty, impermanence, and the spirit of place.
No noise. No clutter. Just quiet inspiration, delivered gently.
Subscribe and stay connected to the unfolding story.