Her chin lifts, her eyes fall closed, and everything goes quiet. Wings Of The Whisperer is a portrait of someone listening, not to any sound in the room but to the language of silence itself. Her face is rendered in luminous greys, every plane of it at peace: the long line of the throat, the lashes resting on her cheeks, the lips relaxed. It is a stillness that feels almost devotional.

Her hair is the opposite of stillness. It streams back and upward in a vast, windswept mane of gold, amber, ochre and smoky black, laid down in long flung lines and scattered droplets that reach from edge to edge of the canvas. Metallic gold catches the light as you pass, so all of it seems to stir, as though a warm wind is moving through it while she alone stays calm.

Nestled in those strands, just beside her ear, a single monarch butterfly has come to rest, painted with jewel-like precision. It is easy to imagine it as the whisperer of the title, leaning in with something meant for her alone, and she, eyes closed, seems to hear every word. At just over six feet tall, the portrait commands a room from across the floor, yet its real pull is intimate: an invitation to be still long enough to listen.