Blossoms and Peach

The blossoms have already fallen from the branch they rest against. The peach beside them is whole, at the height of itself. This is not a painting about loss — it is a painting about the distance between two kinds of time, and what it means to place them next to each other without comment.

The branch rises into darkness, still carrying two small leaves, still growing. What has fallen and what continues share the same surface. The four small spheres at the lower left — neither fruit nor bud, simply present — introduce a register the rest of the composition refuses to explain.

Pink against deep red-orange. Softness against density. Something open against something sealed. The painting doesn't resolve this; it holds the tension and lets it remain.

To hang this work is to keep a particular kind of question in the room: what we tend, what we release, and whether that difference is as clear as we believe. It suits collectors who are drawn not to answers but to the quality of the pause before one.