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As I draw with my index finger, scraping away black paint from a gessoed panel, I trace lines that disappear under light and then reappear somewhere else in the composition, completing an endless continuum. If the picture plane were a window, a million lines would fly out of its sides like rays and would seemingly dance with each other into infinity.

Then again, a line is only a construct, the place where two things come together. Not a thing at all. It seems appropriate in some strange way, that I remove black to make light, which is not a thing, either.