Oil on kraft paper, 
185 cm H x 105 cm W

Beaux-Arts de Paris

The first painting after my return.
My father was still dying in my bones.

An entire world held within a fleeting instant of surrender, Pascal’s body became a mirror—
of grief, of stillness, of breath not yet released.

Blue-grey quiet surrounds him.
The brush carries more than pigment; 
it carries the unsaid.

A fellow artist said:
“It feels like Monet’s winter.”
But this isn’t winter.
It’s farewell.

The portrait is Pascal’s.
But the silence—it’s mine.