Color, at first, and nothing definitive. The eye looks for markers and, finding none, imagines only splashes, only things that mean nothing but brightness and riot, chaos in amber, rust and crimson. Reminiscent of a dawning day, or the promise of a gloaming. A nothing, a nothing, a nothing. Then, and how to describe the moment? Then, something. And the joy of something recognizable is a surge, a swelling in the breast. It clicks, and yet makes no sound. How to put comprehension into words? How to write recognition? Somehow, an abstract shifts to something known, something shared, something us. Something not just artist, but collaborative.