I had already decided who he was. What he needed. I was wrong. Nothing dramatic about it. Just wrong.
This painting comes from that moment.
A man stands in front of you, not asking, not explaining. The scarf moves. The rest holds. The structure is steady. Planes, angles, pieces that don’t fully resolve at once.
Like memory. Like perception.
You see what you expect to see. Until something interrupts it.
Then you look again.
Held long enough, the fragments begin to assemble into something else. Not a different person. A clearer one.
