Mixed media on canvas 9 x 12
“Veil of the Exhumed Pulse”
This is not a painting. It is a discarded organ from a civilization that never developed bones. The lattice you see was once used to filter memory from breath. I unearthed it during a dream excavation, just below the rootline of thought, above the bedrock of instinct.
The fibrous mesh is made of silence spun into form—an echo net woven by blind cartographers to trap migratory emotions. If you listen closely, it crackles faintly, like a whisper being strangled. The branching tendrils are capillaries of regret, fossilized mid-spasm. They only appear pink in this dimension; in their native spectrum, they shimmer between rust and revelation.
Beneath the gauze: a wound that refuses to forget. It pulses—not with blood, but with before. Before the skin. Before the word. Before the rules about how space is allowed to behave.
Viewers often ask me, “What’s behind the veil?” I can only respond with a warning: Do not try to peel it back. The veil is not covering the thing. The veil is the thing.
Store flat. Keep out of reach of intuition. Do not feed after memoryfall.