Introspection

Eyes closed, the face settles, and the gaze turns inward. What the eyes no longer look at, the hair begins to write: line after line, folding, knotting, opening onto the white of the page. Everything that moves passes into the line, up to the point where the portrait opens onto abstraction. Here identity is not a likeness to hold on to, but something that keeps taking shape, the inner landscape surfacing as the face grows still.