In The Dominant Stag, the wilderness breathes with ancient pride. A figure, fragile yet grounded, sits among alpine pines, her presence a whisper of human vulnerability against the vast permanence of mountain and beast. Opposite her, the stag stands tall — majestic, sovereign, unyielding. His antlers crown him as guardian of silence, emblem of power older than civilisation itself.

Drawn in blood and graphite, the encounter becomes more than a scene: it is a ritual, a confrontation between instinct and consciousness, dominance and surrender, wildness and reflection. The gaze between woman and animal collapses centuries of myth, echoing Artemis, Pan, and the secret rites of forests where language has always failed.

This is no pastoral idyll, but an invocation of hierarchy and desire, of awe before the primal order. The stag, in his dominance, is both protector and judge; the woman, seated, is both subject and witness. Together, they inhabit a suspended moment — at once tender, unsettling, and eternal — where human presence is but a fleeting intrusion in nature’s sovereign reign.