The Weight of Water

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

The head turns, or perhaps it has always been turned this way, slightly, away from something it cannot face or toward something it has always faced alone.

On the left, a profile emerges: the arc of a forehead, the slope of a nose, the gentle close of an eye. A single teardrop sits at its inner corner. It has not fallen. It will not fall. It is held in the precise moment between feeling and release, the most human moment there is.

On the right, a second eye rests, further away, calmer. Together they make a face that is almost a face. A person who is almost a person. Yours to complete.

The Weight of Water is about grief in its most honest form, not the dramatic grief of open weeping, but the suspended grief of a tear that has gathered and will not move. The kind you carry in a room full of people. The kind that belongs to someone specific, who is not here.

Whoever is not here, they are here, in this drawing, waiting for you to recognise them.