Beneath a labyrinth of beads made of light, a corridor—or is it a river of gray scales move toward an invisible horizon? In its depths, orbs—or maybe snowflakes—settle on the tips of solid matter, or are they melting? Ripples from rock rooted in the riverbed emanate on a glass-like surface. In the distance, a row of windows, or maybe an observatory, is scarcely visible. In the foreground, a water-bearing pot stands silent, still and strong. Everything is strangely suspended in time. Time itself sits on the surface suspended. Light moves, drifts and emanates at different depths, making it difficult to understand where exactly one is situated within the painting. A ring of orbs hover at the lower edge of the painting. They appear repetitively, like a nagging conscience, across neighboring canvases. There can be no right or wrong answer here.
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