"The abyss is painted faded red. Like the lips of the girl with a pearl earring, ripe with expectation. It is her ravine of rouge but we are welcome. We, the walking strangers wandering to different somewheres soaked in our shared sin and promise. She, the artist that shows us prismatic pieces of what could be. Look, her words do not have to say. It is not a drawing, it is not a painting, it is not an objet d'art, it is an opening. A portal in front of which we pause, suspended in moments made of clouds, our bodies grounded by our own sketched planes of potential. And you see that your fingers are painted faded red, too. Like the abyss that is the colour of the lips of the girl with a pearl earling. You see that you, too, are ripe with expectation. The lit cigarette that winks at the night, cradled in the mouths of those who make plans without asking for permission. Serenaded by beauty and horror, tracing lines in ash that has fallen in Saturn’s lonely shadow. It is her ravine of rouge but we are welcome. We must have chaos, always, and always, her work reminds us—just as Claude Monet always and always needed flowers. Tracing pandemoniums upon papers she leaves for us to find in her abyss painted faded red."