Sanguine

What survives of someone is rarely their face. It is the warmth they left behind, and this work is built in that gap, where affection persists long after accuracy has gone.

A continuous line gathers into something recognisable, a brow, the turn of a cheek, then lets go before it can be confirmed. Recognition keeps arriving and keeps withdrawing. Nothing settles into likeness.

The ground beneath it is blood-warm, and that changes everything. This is not loss rendered cold. It is the way we actually hold the people we have loved: vividly, imprecisely, more feeling than feature.

Hung where the light moves across it, the mood shifts through the day, and the faces you find are rarely the same ones twice.