

A heart-like vessel swells from a field of stippled darkness into a bruised spectrum, its surface punctured by small, windowed lights that read as fragile memories insisting on visibility. Above it, two charcoal hands rise in turbulent scribbles, as if the psyche is trying to grasp what can’t be held—desire, grief, or the last thread of control—while a single red flutter hovers like a pulse made external. The composition’s vertical ascent turns inner anatomy into architecture, suggesting that what shelters us is also what confines us, and that illumination arrives not as clarity but as intermittent openings in the density of feeling.







