Pillars of Birch XII

The birches stand like the remains of an ancient colonnade, their trunks etched with time. The masked figure moves through them, a shadow given form, a traveler on an unseen path.

“There is something haunting in the light of the moon,” wrote Joseph Conrad, but daylight, too, can carry a ghostly weight. The sun is high, yet the scene feels like a dream, the brightness overexposed, the contrasts too sharp to belong entirely to waking life.

The mask is expressionless, yet it holds a thousand possibilities. It is both presence and void, allowing the viewer to project their own meaning onto the scene. Is this a seeker, a wanderer, a remnant of myth? Or is it simply a reflection—of movement, time, and ourselves?