This piece was made for movement. And for the year of the horse.
Not the quiet kind. The kind that gathers itself and runs.
Across the surface, horses emerge through shadow and smoke. Not decorative. Not distant. They hold the weight of the image. Threads carry them forward the way memory carries a story, slightly blurred, slightly heavy.
The image is woven, not printed. The scene lives inside the fabric itself. The fringe lets it loosen at the edges, like wind lifting at a mane.
