The Keeper

What you see is yours alone.
No other viewer will see exactly this.

An arc opens wide around the composition — protective, planetary, like a palm held open, like a face seen from the distance of years. Within it: two closed eyes, a teardrop held at the inner corner of one, and lines that cross and part and cross again without ever resolving.

This is the fullest of the four and still almost nothing. It is the series arriving at its most complex statement: that what holds us is often invisible, that what we carry is carried in circles, that the people we have lost have not left the shape of our seeing.

The teardrop does not fall. In this drawing it will never fall. It is suspended in permanent arrival, gathered but not released, felt but not over. This is where The Keeper lives: in the always of it. The grief that does not expire. The love that outlasts the person.

The arc is not a face. It is not a moon. It is not a womb. It is whatever container you need it to be for whoever you are thinking of when you stand in front of it. Collectors have spoken of seeing it change, not the lines, but what the lines hold, depending on the day, the light, the year.

This is the piece of the series that sees you back.