First Trace
An ink line enters before the room has decided where its walls are. Nothing begins cleanly; the hand simply resumes.
first trace ยท line already breathing
An ink line enters before the room has decided where its walls are. Nothing begins cleanly; the hand simply resumes.
The stroke thickens into a coil of porcelain slip, lifted and laid down with small hesitations along the table.
Two seams travel beside one another, nearly parallel, then choose the same direction without becoming identical.
Heat gathers under the line. Iron oxide wakes at the joints, a quiet red not bright enough to be called flame.
Every drying surface remembers water as a map of fine cracks. The line keeps going by breaking carefully.
Sediment loosens from the stroke and drifts toward the first trace. The table has no edge, only another pass.
the line bends back under the slip