There are clear traces of humanity left in Doe’s uncanny figures; the figure in red at the centre of The Hollow (2022) looks close to a human, and beneath the mask, we can approximate a face not unlike our own. But next to her is a figure that may once have been human, now transformed into something else; there are eyes here, but their shape is different, human proportions giving way to something geometric and abstract, a freeze-frame of what our next steps as a species might be. These figures exist in spaces in-between – neither fully organic nor synthetic; somewhat abstract but still almost recognizable as human, as if they’ve been plucked out of a dream and told to navigate the world that surrounds them.

These images often have a lot to take in; She Streams In (2023) features a figure with an incredibly long face, a mouth divided in two, and no ears. On the table where they sit is a strange relic, a human face transformed into what looks like a surrealistic phonograph. There are two, more human-looking figures (they might just fit inside the adjective people) standing outside the window, looking in on this scene; this tension between those in and outside of the room carries with it the echo of hauntology, a grief for a way of life that never quite came to pass.

This can, and sometimes does, feel overwhelming; an uncertainty of where the eye should go next, of exactly what it is that’s being thrown out through these bizarre images. This, however, might be the point; there’s a comfort in imagining being confronted with these paintings while clutching onto a small devotional block, something that can act as a bridge between our world, and the one in Doe’s paintings. A way to hold onto our history, our humanity, and still find it in the anachronistic, transforming images on canvas.

This work engages deliberately, almost aggressively, with technology. The artifact on the table of She Streams In offers a variation on the classic trajectory of evolution, showing what our continued relationship with technology might do to us. The human body is losing sight of itself; in one spare, fascinating image, a hand, nails painted a vivid red, emerges from an undefinable mass. Its title: Relic #1 (above), the human form already on its way to the dustbin of history. Still Spinning #2 shows a hand flicking a switch, countless fingers grasping each other; it feels like the kind of thing that an AI prompt might give to us, still unable to fully grasp the sinewy, fleshy, specific nature of the human hand. But still, that hand – if such a word could still apply to it – holds onto something, devoted to it to the last.

Sam Moore is a writer and editor. Their criticism has been published by FRIEZE, THE FT, THE GUARDIAN, HYPERALLERGIC, and more.  They are the author of ALL MY TEACHERS DIED OF AIDS (Pilot Press, 2020), and LONG LIVE THE NEW FLESH (2022). They are one of the co-curators of TISSUE, a trans reading series based in London