fault lines

Some fractures don’t arrive all at once—they spider quietly beneath the surface, precise and patient. This piece holds the tension of seeming intact while quietly splitting along invisible lines. It’s a tribute to those of us carrying the slow dread of political collapse, ecological grief, and existential fatigue—who keep moving forward anyway, even as we sense the rupture underfoot.

It’s for the ones pretending the foundation is solid, rehearsing normalcy while the ground shifts. The ones shielding others—or their inner child—from the enormity of what’s coming, from the ache of knowing how deep the cracks really go. I became fluent in stillness. An expert in smiling through the tremors. But self-denial has a quiet violence to it. And eventually, the body—the spirit—demands to be seen in its unrest. This painting is a record of that pressure: a crust of ochre, sand, lapis, and scorched earth. Forged from the fault lines I tried to hide.

It isn’t about collapse. It’s about the fortitude of admitting the break. And the sacred, trembling choice to keep stepping—toward truth, toward one another, toward ground that might yet hold.