“The Weight Beneath the Skyline,” is a fusion of Cubist abstraction with the emotional geology of the 1920s American Dream. The composition echoes a metropolis born from ambition—the skyscrapers of post-war America rising like promises made of chrome and illusion. Here, the gaze is turned downward, to the fractured textures and scorched siennas where the real dream toiled—the unseen labourers (the real architects) who remain invisible beneath the grandeur of skyscrapers and dreams. It nods to the divine craftsman Tvaṣṭṛ (the builder in Vedic texts), but in a stripped, exposed form — enduring, nameless, forgotten.

Beneath the glittering peaks lies the ghost of the Gold Rush, not of California, but of every migrant, every worker, every soul who carried bricks of hope on their backs. The palette’s oxidized greens and coppered browns become relics of that era—wealth tarnished, labor immortal. Amid the chaos, a faint green shimmer threads through the canvas, a subtle tribute to Gatsby’s unreachable green light: a beacon not of luxury, but of longing.

Figures embedded in the strata of the city seem carved into its DNA. Their forms are not painted—they're etched, as if time itself remembered them when history did not. This painting confronts the illusion of glamour with the gravity of effort. It asks: Who bore the weight beneath our skylines?

Here, hope doesn’t shine from above—it rises from below.