There is a white that is not absence; it is waiting. The wood waits underneath, showing its grain, without asking for permission. Above it, the outline of something that hasn’t yet decided what to be. And almost always, someone decides for you. They fill your head before you even arrive.

To look is to choose a side. These days, the sides scream at each other, accuse each other, harden. Each head has chosen its own. Some seek each other out, others turn their backs without knowing it. There is one place where they finally face each other, and that exchange of glances is the entire era. The air that separates them is the only thing they truly share.

What is missing is not painted. It is left as it is. So that the viewer can fill it, before they fill it for them.