

Suspended in a cool, misted field of blue, the still life feels less like an arrangement than a memory held at armβs lengthβsoftened by air, time, and restraint. The pale blooms flare briefly against the silence of the background, their warm creams and faint apricots answering the heavier, grounded mass of the vessels below. Loose, scumbled paint and broken edges allow the forms to hover between presence and dissolution, suggesting the tenderness of what is fleeting and the quiet discipline of what remains.







