still
It begins with River Bath—a yellow figure adrift in abstraction, untouched by time, held by water. Then comes Cowboy—boots planted, hat tipped, standing alone in a myth too heavy to carry home. These early pieces hum with stylized solitude, shaped by a pool-era palette and the careful scissors of memory. Each figure and cactus is pulled from a real photograph, then flattened, reassembled, reimagined—cut paper meets digital reverie, with a nod to Matisse and a heart full of sun.
As the desert takes hold, the body shifts. It gets quieter, smaller. It walks, pauses, braces, blurs. The cacti become more than backdrop; they become witness, family, gatekeeper, mirror. What starts as a personal reckoning dissolves into something more elemental: presence without explanation. Silence without apology.
And at the far end of this hush—after Lost, after Unwelcomed, after Searching—a new light rises. Daybreak. A figure stands again, not armored but upright. Not triumphant, but seen.
Still isn’t just a series. It’s a slow unraveling told in heat, shape, and shadow. Read it top to bottom. Like a graphic novel whispered by the land itself.
