

A small flutist sits poised atop an immense, dark hand, turning intimacy into monument and suggesting how fragile song is carried—protected yet precariously exposed—by forces larger than the self. The composition hinges on a quiet imbalance: the child’s warm, human presence against the hand’s carved, hyperreal texture, where every crease reads like accumulated history and labor. A band of smudged charcoal and drifting red specks cuts the air like a disrupted staff line, evoking music that both dissolves and persists, as if memory is being scored and erased at once. In this suspended space, nurture and power, innocence and weight, become a single paradox held in the palm of seeing.







