He Grinds the Pigment Into Evening

An elder figure hunches over a stone muller, crushing raw pigment against a slab — the powder rising in a warm sienna cloud that bleeds into the surrounding dusk until the air and the color are indistinguishable. I wanted the act of making paint to feel like the first act of any painting: violent, tender, alchemical. His knuckles are the same red-brown as the dust he's making.