Decision has the quiet of a held breath. Not a stop — more like the pause before something begins.

When I look at it, I think about the times I’ve seen my father lean back from the easel. He studies what’s there, but more than that, he listens. There’s a point in every painting where direction can’t be forced — it has to reveal itself.

The surface of this one feels like that moment: color waiting, shape suspended, rhythm measured by attention rather than movement.