October in Bilbao brought shorter days and a more muted light than a southern summer. The trees were familiar species, the kind you find in Belgium. It did not feel exotic. What it felt was community. On weekday mornings there were people walking their dogs, friends running, neighbours talking on the many benches placed throughout the city. On Friday evenings the whole thing tipped into something else: everyone outside at once, noise layering on noise, the atmosphere quite literally buzzing.

The Bilbao series is painted on beige-toned paper in creamy, ochre-inflected colours that echo that particular October light. But these works carry something else, the first sustained use of a new methodology. Each piece was painted specifically to be cut. The paintings were sliced into vertical strips and reassembled in a new sequence. The original image shifts. Something recognisable survives, but the brain takes a moment to settle it, searching for the logic of what has moved.

This is not destruction. It is closer to how memory actually works: the atmosphere held intact, the colours preserved, while the precise spatial relationships quietly rearrange themselves. The collage does not misrepresent the original. It tells the truth about how we remember it. But that truth is unstable, and over time different versions of a memory begin to exist alongside each other.