Description
Every tire carries a record of where it has been, if you look close enough.
Here the tread has worn into a city. Gold streets run out from a green plaza like spokes, a blue river bends through the old quarter, and a single spire still stands at the crest of the rubber. Pale smoke curls around it all, the last breath of a hard stop or a long night’s drive.
It’s a painting about the miles we stop noticing: the commutes, the detours, the roads that took us home. Dark, textured and full of small details, it rewards a second look and a third.
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