Untitled 9 (Crimson Cacophony)

A field of coral-pink impasto unfolds like sun-warmed clay, its ridged surface insisting on touch as much as sight, while charcoal cuts and cross-marks interrupt the calm with the blunt cadence of tallying or stitching. The composition reads as a fractured grid—order proposed, then repeatedly undone—so that space feels simultaneously mapped and unsettled, as if a plan is being rewritten mid-thought. These dark incisions become wounds and seams at once, suggesting repair as a form of memory: the painting holds together not through perfection, but through the visible labor of mending.