Between Pane and Frame: The Pane That Remembers (Right), The Frame That Forgets (Left)
Backlit Stained Glass in Wooden Shadow Box (Right) and Oil on Canvas (Left), 2025
You’ve seen glass before. You’ve seen paintings too. But this time you’re not quite sure where
the image begins.
The glass isn’t whole. It doesn’t tell a full story. It used to be part of something—now it’s
framed, a witness asked to speak without the rest of the body.
The painting, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to want to say anything at all. It holds something
in, or maybe it’s already letting go.
You’re looking through something, but what are you looking for?
The pane remembers. The frame forgets. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
You walked in expecting clarity. You leaned closer. It didn’t help.
The fragment fuses into a nebulous image. The surface splits into resistant crackings.
You were told one thing. You heard another.
You remember it differently. You know it only partially.
It doesn’t matter what’s True. You hold them all at once—
the contradiction, the overlap, the fracture, the echo.
What stays visible when everything else disappears?
the image begins.
The glass isn’t whole. It doesn’t tell a full story. It used to be part of something—now it’s
framed, a witness asked to speak without the rest of the body.
The painting, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to want to say anything at all. It holds something
in, or maybe it’s already letting go.
You’re looking through something, but what are you looking for?
The pane remembers. The frame forgets. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
You walked in expecting clarity. You leaned closer. It didn’t help.
The fragment fuses into a nebulous image. The surface splits into resistant crackings.
You were told one thing. You heard another.
You remember it differently. You know it only partially.
It doesn’t matter what’s True. You hold them all at once—
the contradiction, the overlap, the fracture, the echo.
What stays visible when everything else disappears?
Liquid Histories, Oil on Canvas, 2025
Left to Right: Littoral, Sediment, Submerge, Estuary
There’s no single drop that defines the ocean. No fixed version of the tide.
Stillness doesn’t last. Something pulls you under before you even decide to dive.
You were dry once. Now you’re slipping.
What’s left behind starts to layer—color, gesture, pressure.
Not symbols. Not stories. Just what’s been carried, spilled, stained.
What refuses to leave.
This isn’t a landscape. It isn’t a memory either.
It’s the moment they take or lose shape.
You might call it soft. You might call it quiet.
But try standing still in the middle of it.
Even silence here has a current.
Trace the edges if you want. Look for a rhythm.
Try not to drift.
Stillness doesn’t last. Something pulls you under before you even decide to dive.
You were dry once. Now you’re slipping.
What’s left behind starts to layer—color, gesture, pressure.
Not symbols. Not stories. Just what’s been carried, spilled, stained.
What refuses to leave.
This isn’t a landscape. It isn’t a memory either.
It’s the moment they take or lose shape.
You might call it soft. You might call it quiet.
But try standing still in the middle of it.
Even silence here has a current.
Trace the edges if you want. Look for a rhythm.
Try not to drift.
What The Bones Can’t Hold: Infra (Top) and Ultra (Bottom), Oil on Canvas, 2025
They say the boy wanted to see clearly.
Not to fly—just to see.
He was given wings, but also a warning. Not about pride. About vision.
Don’t look too long. Don’t stare into the force that lights the world.
He flew anyway. Not high, just far enough to reach the edge of what the eye could hold.
And then, the gold split. The surface cracked. The image failed.
They say his wings melted. But that’s not the truth.
What broke was the air around him.
The light became too much. The form unraveled. The frame couldn’t carry it.
Some called it punishment. Some said revelation.
But those who understand say:
He didn’t fall from ambition.
He fell from exposure.
TŪR (Diptych), Oil on Canvas, 2025
It bends like a mountain—too heavy to carry, too distant to reach. What once touched now drifts apart. The gesture breaks, and weight shifts. Like a wound in the terrain, longing opens—quiet, exposed, unresolved.
Chibbek Libbek, Oil on Canvas, 2024
Les Aiguilles de Zola, Gouache and gesso on canvas, 2023
Commission: Écho dans le Salon, Oil on Canvas, 2024
Painting of the Koimesis, Oil on canvas, 2023
La Porte de la Vaine Fontaine, Alcohol inks, paint, urethane, silicone on board, 2023
Dans le gouffre obscur de la fontaine élargit,
La porte se retourne en un dessin gravé.
La vaine fontaine, dans la cruche lovée,
La vaine fontaine, dans la cruche lovée,
Se naît tel une énigme, sa veine en feu git.
No Figure on Ground, Oil on Canvas hanging within a Frame, 2023
Left: Encounter (Brim) Right: Encounter (Genesis), Acrylic, oil, and latex paint on canvas, 2022
I am exploring painting as an exercise. I meditate on the exercise of walking through a gallery space. When it’s your 5th gallery of the week, the 35th painting you see today. As you pass by, you will walk fast. I will not ask you to stop. Keep walking. But what did you see as you floated by for 4 seconds?
When you walked in, you built expectations of what it was. Did that push you to walk closer or move away? Either way, once you get closer, intentionally or by following the crowd, Will it be regret or appreciation, or will you just be intrigued to stop? You don’t have to stop. There is no time. Keep walking.
Do you want to touch the painting? At this point, you won’t be that pushed to do it as you’ve felt the need to do it 10 times already last month in the 57 galleries you’ve visited and were either told not to or got shocked by a noisy, obnoxious sound alarm. If you don’t understand, you might feel like you wasted too much time reading this.
I told you before, but you don’t listen. Don’t stop. Keep walking.
Through the Looking Glass, Acrylic on Canvas, 2023
Le K 2 Narcisse, Enamel, Latex paint, and Urethane on Panel (Left) Canvas (Right), 2022
Narcissus is caught in his self-absorbing thoughts, gazing into the still and clear water and seeing his reflection. Lost in contemplation, he stares and stares as the surface remains unaware, a perfect mirror of his reflection or a deceptive force drawing him into obsession. We witness the moment of looking. Again, the water is central to this scene, a source of beauty and danger. He loses touch with reality, consumed by self-perception, as he gazes into infinity and awaits his resurrection.
Untitled (Triptych), Oil on Linen, 2022