.
You don’t read this as water at first.
You read it as movement.
The surface keeps sliding away from itself — reds stretching, breaking, reforming against the blue. Nothing settles long enough to become an object. The image refuses edges. It’s all drift and interruption.
Then you realize you’re looking at a reflection, not a place.
What’s solid is elsewhere.
The painting holds that moment when the water is doing more than mirroring — when it’s rearranging what it sees. Color gets pulled, thinned, doubled back on itself. The reflection becomes its own thing, separate from whatever caused it.
There’s no horizon to stand on.
No landmark to orient yourself.
You stay with it longer than you expect, watching the light hold its place while everything around it keeps moving.
