I am alone in the studio.

Surrounded by paintings that no one wants, I sit with them, these objects I have made, these forms that once had meaning, now hovering in an uneasy limbo. I question my practice. I question my purpose. I doubt myself. I ask, and ask, and ask - but no answers come.

These paintings, these altered forms, once had a life. I made them, and they made sense. But now, they are layered over, erased, buried beneath coats of paint that harden like a shell, or scraped raw until only fragments remain. Some resist, their past still pressing through, ghostlike. Others disappear completely swallowed by silver, by white, by time. I don't know if they are becoming something new or simply dissolving into obscurity. I don’t know if that even matters.