Garden

Against a field of charcoal foliage, two children emerge like living punctuation marks—skin rendered in improbable yellows and magentas that turn innocence into something quietly uncanny, as if childhood itself were a borrowed mask. The composition stages a tender rupture: the nearer child turns outward to meet our gaze while holding a pale blossom, a small act of care set against the distant, indifferent rhythm of adults moving along an elevated walkway. Sparse, saturated flowers flare through the greys like suppressed memories, suggesting that wonder persists, but only in brief eruptions within a world increasingly structured, fenced, and passing overhead.