Trace was made under rain each touch a leaf print from the mulberry, each drop a stored feeling set free. The face is not drawn so much as impressed upon the surface, like weather remembering the body that moved through it.
Black here is not erasure but disclosure. I wanted to be seen inside it: eyes speaking out of silence, breath carried in the grain of the dark. What spills onto the canvas is not confession, but the slow seep of what can no longer be held.
Trace keeps the moment and lets it pass in the same gesture. Where the rain touched, a memory remains; where the hand pressed a map of feeling stays. It is not only mine it belongs to everything that goes and leaves a mark behind.