Expanse
80 × 40 × 4.5 Inches, Acrylic on Linen - 2025
It turns.
The dark turns first — plum into smoke,
smoke into the soft ache of black.
Then color follows: magenta, cyan, yellow —
small collisions of brightness finding rhythm.
Each pulse a heartbeat.
Each orbit a memory.
Nothing stays still.
The past spins forward;
the future folds back.
Gravity hums between them —
the silent tether that keeps us from drifting too far.
You think you are watching the universe move,
but it is watching you —
your own pulse, reflected in its endless rotation.
It turns again.
And again.
And again.
Collector Notes:
Layer by layer, Expanse builds its own gravity. Acrylic and texture mediums form a surface that both absorbs and releases light — plum into grey, grey into black, black into the faint shimmer of something alive. Across it, stars scatter in magenta, cyan, and yellow, tracing invisible ellipses, each one a small defiance of stillness.
The work moves even as it rests. Patterns repeat, dissolve, reform. Memory loops. Time folds. What appears infinite is, in truth, intimate — a record of the artist’s rhythm, the steady turning of hand and thought. To stand before it is to feel that turning inside yourself: the pull outward, the return home, the endless dance between them.
80 × 40 × 4.5 Inches, Acrylic on Linen - 2025
It turns.
The dark turns first — plum into smoke,
smoke into the soft ache of black.
Then color follows: magenta, cyan, yellow —
small collisions of brightness finding rhythm.
Each pulse a heartbeat.
Each orbit a memory.
Nothing stays still.
The past spins forward;
the future folds back.
Gravity hums between them —
the silent tether that keeps us from drifting too far.
You think you are watching the universe move,
but it is watching you —
your own pulse, reflected in its endless rotation.
It turns again.
And again.
And again.
Collector Notes:
Layer by layer, Expanse builds its own gravity. Acrylic and texture mediums form a surface that both absorbs and releases light — plum into grey, grey into black, black into the faint shimmer of something alive. Across it, stars scatter in magenta, cyan, and yellow, tracing invisible ellipses, each one a small defiance of stillness.
The work moves even as it rests. Patterns repeat, dissolve, reform. Memory loops. Time folds. What appears infinite is, in truth, intimate — a record of the artist’s rhythm, the steady turning of hand and thought. To stand before it is to feel that turning inside yourself: the pull outward, the return home, the endless dance between them.