Branches, 2020

12" x 12" acrylic on board; Unframed + hangar

Branches rises like a sentient tree grown not from soil but from memory. Its trunk twists upward into a chorus of heads and gestures, each limb terminating in a different consciousness — a beaked witness, a crowned grin, a skull-like echo, a watchful hand. The central face, clustered with luminous eyes, suggests a being that sees in many directions at once, burdened by multiplicity rather than empowered by it. What might first appear as growth begins to feel like accumulation: identities layered over time, voices sprouting where silence once lived.

The roots clutch the ground with uneasy persistence, as though this creature has anchored itself by force of will alone. Above, the sky shifts from cool blue to an amber haze, a gradient that feels like emotional weather — serenity dissolving into unrest. There is something almost playful in the absurdity of its forms, yet the humor carries an edge; the crowned head smiles too knowingly, the smaller faces seem caught mid-utterance.

The painting reads like a myth of consciousness branching beyond containment — a portrait of the self as habitat, parliament, and battleground. In this figure, thought is organic, unstable, and generative. It grows new heads where questions remain unanswered, and new hands where the need to reach persists.