The face is not painted. It is built. Scrap by scrap, patch by patch — warm browns and coppers for skin, dark cutouts for eyes, a filigree pattern drifting across the forehead like memory.
Beneath the collage, graphite pencil lines trace the jawline, the forehead, the hair. They are the skeleton — the architecture that holds the assembled fragments in place. On the cutting mat, loose scraps wait their turn. The green grid beneath measures angles; the artist measures something else entirely.
This is the process laid bare: identity as collage. We are all made of pieces — some chosen, some found, some cut to fit a shape we are still discovering.