bodegon

This is not a still life—this is a held breath. A moment suspended between opulence and silence. The fruits are not arranged—they are posed, like royal children in ceremonial portraits. The glass catches light as if it were holy, and the silver whispers of hands that once polished it with care. Even the cloth breathes with memory— a velvet murmur of shared laughter, of vanished guests. It is abundance, yes, but it is also absence. The plates are waiting. The goblets are waiting. But no one will come. And in that absence, the beauty becomes sacred. Not because it is full, but because it remembers.