This series is “a conversation about women standing before the male-dominated art world.” The works draw a subtle thread from The Stranger—not in a literal retelling of Camus, but in the sense of an outsider moving through the world with a kind of estranged clarity. In Rahanjam’s imagination, that outsider becomes a man caught inside a woman’s body: a figure who, like Camus’s protagonist, doesn’t quite know how to cry or laugh. She likens this emotional stiffness to a brooding rooster—alert, territorial, unsettled.

That tension takes shape in these hybrid sculptures, where a pared-down female torso is crowned with a glossy, oversized rooster’s head. The rooster, with its insistent crowing and its ritual claim on the morning, becomes a stand-in for the performance of masculine authority. Set atop a woman’s body, it turns slightly absurd, slightly theatrical—yet also strangely resolute.

Rahanjam isn’t interested in nihilism. Her figures aren’t symbols of despair. Instead, they introduce a contemporary character—someone negotiating inherited expectations while trying to speak in their own voice. The rooster’s crow shifts in meaning here: no longer a territorial warning; a declaration of presence, a refusal to be quiet or misread.

The sculptures sit at the edge of humor and unease, power and vulnerability. They carry the weight of the structures they push against, but they also signal the possibility of a new beginning—one announced on their own terms.