Painted veils of shifting color suggest horizons glimpsed through the haze of memory, or the last moments of a dream as wakefulness arrives. Vast, atmospheric fields are bound tightly by thread — directional, but with no destination, like a deep breath held too long. In these works, containment becomes its own kind of tenderness, an act of preservation as much as control, the way we hold desperately onto moments of exquisite loveliness.