This shell is a collection of memories archived in a swirl of time.
However, this is not a study of a shell. This is a document of appetite—an organism folding in on itself, again and again, until repetition becomes identity. The spiral isn’t a design, it’s an insistence.
Color floods the surface like memory turned physical—bloody reds, meat-like, sweet, almost edible, almost obscene. The structure is perfect only because it had to be: desire made architectural, grown in increments, armored in its own beauty.
There is no center—only the illusion of one, luring the eye inward while the form quietly denies access. It doesn’t conceal, it declares.
This painting does not offer rest. It offers accumulation. And the accumulation says: I am. I want. I continue.
