She Lets the Brush Forget Her Name

Late afternoon, a woman seated at an easel with her back to us, her silhouette half-absorbed into the warm amber glow of the canvas she faces. The painting she works on bleeds outward past its frame, colors seeping into her coat, her hair, her shadow — as if she is not making the work but being consumed into it. I wanted the moment when the maker disappears and only the making remains.