Undercurrent

There’s a place I return to in my mind, a stretch of shoreline beneath a crumbling cliff, where the wind whispers through hollow windows of a house that once held laughter, now nothing but shadows.

The land there is always shifting, etched with the slow memory of water. Nothing stands still.
Not the earth, not the sea, and certainly not the thoughts we leave behind.

This painting is a trace of that memory. Not of a real place, but of the feeling you get
when something familiar begins to fade. A pull you can’t quite name, like a tide beneath the surface drawing you inward before you even notice.

Here, color is stripped to essence— black, white, and ghost-violet.
Here, the brush moves not with precision, but with instinct.
The marks are scars, the quiet is not emptiness but reflection.

And somewhere in the distance, just beyond the quiet, you feel it too – the undercurrent.