By Callum 
A face emerges from the soil, both human and planetary. Eyes closed, lips parted, hair tangled with roots and rivers. The painting isn’t just a portrait—it is the earth dreaming.
Created in 2008, Phase Mother Earth carries the weight of myth. The colors pulse in phases—deep greens, warm browns, sudden bursts of fiery orange. It is as if the canvas breathes: inhale, exhale, seasons turning.
The figure is neither goddess nor landscape, but both. She is soil made flesh, a reminder that the ground beneath us is alive, that our bones are only borrowed minerals. In her face, we see tenderness. In her posture, we see resilience.
Earth Day brings parades of slogans and slogans fade—but here is a reminder painted in pigment: the planet is not “out there,” separate. It is us. Skin, vein, river, breath. Phase by phase, her health is ours, her wounds our inheritance.
Phase Mother Earth is not a warning. It is a mirror. And the question it poses is simple: when we look at her face, what do we see reflected back?