Some paintings begin as a place.
Others begin as a movement back toward something unnamed.
This piece feels like a map, but not the kind that tells you where to go. It traces the quieter terrain beneath the surface — the places shaped by memory, erosion, tenderness, and time.
There are passages that open, lines that fracture, colors that soften into one another. Nothing here moves in a straight line. Like the inner life, it bends, disappears, resurfaces.
Maybe return is not about going back.
Maybe it is about recognizing the path that has been forming inside us all along.