Homage, collage, and beating drum. Carvings, cravings, savings, shavings — a ritual in fragments, scattered and sacred. The air smells like linseed and ambition. Studio Constantin, lit like a chapel, flickers under halogen halos, chasing ghosts in graphite and spilled wine. Somewhere between a blueprint and a fever dream, the northern star leans in, steady, unbothered. This is the impasse of perfection and beauty — where nothing’s finished, everything’s holy, and the silence between brushstrokes feels louder than war.