This work does not ask to be understood; it resists narrative. The pigments are not colors, they are tensions—vortices where form disintegrates into its own absence. The blue is not sky nor sea, but the memory of both before they were named. Yellow bursts through like a wound of light, rupturing the surface of perception, while the shadows swallow meaning itself. Here, matter trembles on the edge of its own erasure, suggesting that what we call “reality” is only a fragile choreography of forces, always collapsing, always reassembling. The painting is not the object; the painting is the interval where you, as a witness, are dissolved.
