A little wobbly, not fully defined or fleshed out. That was the beginning. The first mask.

It was stitched together from potential and inspiration, a raw attempt to become visible in a world that made me feel ghostlike. I wandered through crowds with a quiet ache, sensing my difference but unsure how to name it. I wanted a new skin suit. Something to wear that would make me legible. Quick—what is everyone wearing. Let me mimic that.

This first mask was not crafted from truth. It was assembled from observation and longing. A wolf in sheep’s clothing and a lion dressed as a wolf. It was confusing and self-deceptive. I was trying to belong by becoming something else.

But even in its awkwardness, this mask held power. It was a gesture toward becoming. A rehearsal. A reaching.

In my painting, I hold this moment still. The figure is framed by hands, as if caught mid-transformation. The face is flushed with red and pink, the mouth open in something between speech and silence. The background is green, a colour of growth and contradiction.

This piece is not about perfection. It is about the first attempt. The first layer. The first time I tried to be seen.