Alright, let’s break this down with the Tomb of… whatever it is. The stone is a fine‑grained limestone, its surface has lost any original paint, but the tool marks are still there, a faint ghost of the artist’s hand. The relief is cut into a flat slab, but the top panels are carved slightly higher, giving a trick of depth that makes the central figure look like it’s stepping out of the stone. The artist lines up that figure at the apex of the composition, aligning it with the natural line of sight when you stand in front of the slab. Light from the left casts a shallow shadow on the lower panels, making the hieroglyphics recede into a shadowed pool. That same shadow hides the worn base where the original inscription once recorded the ruler’s lineage. If you tilt the slab, the right panel suddenly takes the spotlight, the narrative hierarchy flips, and the viewer’s eye is forced to read in a different order. Preservation has flattened the depth, so the framing – the narrow black border you might see in a gallery – compacts the story, making the narrative feel almost claustrophobic, like the stone itself is trying to keep its secrets close.

A movable light source? Sure, if you want the viewer to feel like they’re negotiating with the stone itself. Just don’t forget to mark where the shadows fall each time, or you’ll end up with a new set of accidental glyphs. And if the shadow starts to look like a second relief, we might have to catalog it separately. Keep the patience, though; this is going to be a slow dance with the stone.