Acrylic on Canvas

12in x 16in framed canvas (20in x 24in)

A vast, sandy plane stretches outward like an abandoned playground for memory, interrupted only by a few stubborn objects that refuse to sink into oblivion. Above this desert of pavement and dust, forks of lightning tear through a golden sky, not with violence but with the slow, deliberate handwriting of a storm trying to remember its own name.​ At the horizon, a small moon hangs between the lightning branches, a cold punctuation mark in an overheated dream. To one side, a half‑sunken clock building nods to the absurdity of schedules, its curved track leading nowhere, as if time itself has missed the last train.​ In the foreground, the familiar green of a Throop Avenue street sign rises like a relic, paired with a one‑way arrow that insists on direction in a world that has lost all clear destinations. Nearby, a cluster of ladybugs marches patiently across the sand, tiny pilgrims whose crimson shells carry more certainty than the towering human monuments.​

On the right, a banquet table draped in green cloth offers an unfinished celebration, bottles, cups, and condiments abandoned in the middle of a disappearing neighborhood. At its edge, a basketball lies half outside the frame, as if the game has slipped from the canvas and into the viewer’s world, asking who will pick up where the story stopped.​ This painting stages a meeting between divine weather and ordinary street corners, between cosmic electricity and local memory. Under the spell of the storm, Throop becomes an endless stage where clocks drown, signs stand stubborn, and even the smallest creatures carry on, proving that eternity might begin at the exact point where the sidewalk ends.