Day by day, for one year straight, I returned to the same drawing of a remote red mountaintop in a forgotten place. The drawing emerged from a photograph, taken in a place of silence and isolation. Over time, the act of drawing moved beyond reference. Each mark brought me back to that initial encounter, a way of remaining with what had been felt more than seen. The land struck me as untouched, as if no one had ever stood there. It held something raw and ungraspable, a presence that was grounding and at the same time elevating, intimidating and oddly safe.

Drawing became a way of listening. A method of reading the surface by hand, grain by grain. Through time and touch, the landscape revealed itself, carrying the distant memory of place and rediscovering it again and again.

Faint white contour lines move through the field, marking subtle shifts in elevation — a human-defined cartographic language juxtaposed with the drawing. They form a quiet field across the surface, a kind of mapping that suggests orientation within the space, as a silent answer to the landscape and how it was understood.

The drawing remains barely visible. It asks for closeness. It invites the eye to slow down, to move with the gestures, to drift along the textures and their quiet shifts. What unfolds is a memory of place layered with the sensation of standing inside something vast and unfamiliar, where the pres...