Signs of the Time

Time writes on people the way it writes on nothing else. It settles into the skin, softens the gaze, leaves its handwriting in every line it draws. No one passes through the years untouched; the marks are the proof of having lived.

In Signs of the Time, a butterfly rests over each face — the briefest of lives laid across the most enduring of marks. The eyes are covered, because what time takes from sight it returns as depth: every trace a memory, every blemish a year survived. Beauty here is not the absence of marks, but what remains after them.