Dog is a large-scale charcoal drawing—240 by 160 cm, made up of sixteen joined sheets—where I tried to create space for stillness, tension, and the subtle shifts that shape how we experience the world. It’s a landscape held in suspension, caught between motion and stillness, clarity and ambiguity, sight and sound. What interests me here is delay—the kind you notice when you see lightning before you hear the thunder. That moment in between is where this work lives.
At the center of the composition, there’s a mountain. It rises quietly, solid and unmoved. It holds everything together. Above it, the sky doesn’t rest—clouds churn and roll, drawn with fast, charged strokes of charcoal. There’s energy there, but it hasn’t fully broken loose. The contrast is important: the mountain feels permanent, while the sky feels like it could shift at any second. That mountain isn’t just a part of the landscape—it becomes something symbolic. A presence. Something that endures in silence.
The title, Dog, is simple but loaded. It’s God in reverse. I don’t explain it—I just place it there. It’s a small inversion that opens a much larger door. It hints at opposites—divine and earthly, presence and absence, what’s above and what’s below. Like the mountain, the title is steady, but it holds a charge.
Charcoal is essential here. Its full range—from soft greys to the darkest blacks—lets me shape both the weight of matter and the air around it. The storm in this drawing doesn’t explode—it hangs there, thick and quiet. Everything feels suspended in the moment before something happens. No drama. No resolution. Just a kind of waiting.
Dog is about thresholds—the space right before change, when everything is still forming. It asks for pause. It invites you to linger in that moment between perception and meaning, between knowing and not knowing. It’s a quiet piece, but one I hope stays with you—not because of what it shows, but because of what it holds back.
