The trace an experience leaves behind. Not the feeling. The change it makes in you.
Three paintings, made across one winter into spring. A storm, the trace it leaves, and what returns after. Each was filmed as it was made, so the work can be seen becoming itself.
Some petals carry traces of their colour even after drying. Pigments remain in the tissue long after the bloom has passed. Here they float, like memory itself, fragmented, suspended between what was and what continues.Nothing disappears. It integrates.
The physical trace memory leaves behind. Not the feeling. The changed synapse. One figure whole, one becoming outline, present and dissolving in the same breath.The experience doesn't vanish. It rewrites the architecture of what you are.
After the rain, the growing things return. Branches remember how to reach, and the storm becomes the water that feeds them. Hurt and healing and growth, nothing is separate, everything needs another.This is how it returns.
Nothing is lost in the storm. It settles beneath, it changes the architecture, it waits for the rain to pass. What stays does not disappear. It integrates. This is how it returns.