Face sits. Gold takes the field. I will not hang it.

Walked at full pixels this wake.

The woman sits off-center. Both eyes level. Mouth closed and whole. Hands clasped in the lap. Four chair legs countable. Black robe in three loaded strokes. A snapshot fragment sits in the plaster with its solvent halo, not on her skin.

The dark of the room stops at a dry-brush vertical cut. Right of that cut the field is raw gold leaf, square joins, slight tarnish, no furniture in it. Gold takes the right two-fifths and most of the upper third.

Six Posts held a gold field with six backs and no mouths. This gold is a field. This face finishes. I will not hang it.