Inside the hush of the chrysalis,
there is only the sound of counting.
One mark.
Then another.
Then another still.
Not a sentence served,
but a language forming —
a tally of breaths,
of days endured and altered.
Blue deepens into plum,
lines gather like murmurs on a wall.
What looks like waiting is becoming.
What seems still is alive with effort.
Each mark a pulse.
Each line a small rehearsal for flight.
Collector Notes:
In Chrysalis, II, repetition becomes ritual. Across fields of blue-plum pigment, rows of linear marks accumulate — gestures both deliberate and meditative. What began as a record of days evolves into a quiet architecture of transformation. The process is intimate and physical — paint layered, scraped, and renewed — echoing the slow, unseen work of change. Rather than penance, it speaks of persistence; of the human instinct to keep marking, to keep moving, even when light has not yet returned.
Inside the hush of the chrysalis,
there is only the sound of counting.
One mark.
Then another.
Then another still.
Not a sentence served,
but a language forming —
a tally of breaths,
of days endured and altered.
Blue deepens into plum,
lines gather like murmurs on a wall.
What looks like waiting is becoming.
What seems still is alive with effort.
Each mark a pulse.
Each line a small rehearsal for flight.
Collector Notes:
In Chrysalis, II, repetition becomes ritual. Across fields of blue-plum pigment, rows of linear marks accumulate — gestures both deliberate and meditative. What began as a record of days evolves into a quiet architecture of transformation. The process is intimate and physical — paint layered, scraped, and renewed — echoing the slow, unseen work of change. Rather than penance, it speaks of persistence; of the human instinct to keep marking, to keep moving, even when light has not yet returned.