Across these paintings, wing-like forms recur — built up in thick, cracked, densely veined paint, against grounds worked with a diffuse black lace patterning. Each wing is legible on its own: its own edge, its own color, its own internal structure, the kind of form that looks like it could simply lift and go. In two of the three works, though, a pair of wings is joined by a thin, segmented, almost vertebral body running between them — not decorative, not incidental, but connective. What appears capable of separating is, by construction, unable to. In the third, that constraint is gone; the wings have already drifted apart, loose in a lighter, warmer field. I recognized only afterward what this might have been echoing — a period of appearing more separate, more independent, than I actually was. That's one layer of what's here, not the whole of it. What the paintings return to, again and again, is the gap itself: between what a form looks capable of and what it is actually built to do.