Two sheets, one fold. She has the gun. He's in the chair. The third one stands between what she knows and what she can prove. From the film of the play: a woman who never saw her torturer's face recognizes him anyway — the voice, the skin, the music he played while he did it. The music is the title. She holds the trial in her living room.

Ink and acrylic — the white goes on after the black. Correction on top of commitment, the way you take something back without taking it back.

The title is borrowed all the way down — a poem, a quartet, a play, a film, this. Death and the maiden keep trading places. She finds him the way anyone finds a figure in these paintings: certain before she can say why.