In Blood on Laos, the painting becomes both witness and wound. The printed words — fragments of language, fragments of memory — form the silent ground upon which a face emerges, sketched not in ink, but in human trace: blood as pigment, blood as testimony.

The visage is spectral, half-revealed, half-consumed by the very medium that gives it life. It gazes from the text like a ghost rising through layers of forgotten histories, like a geographical map of conquered territories telling stories of human suffering, insisting on presence where erasure was once intended. The paper, fragile and archival, trembles between document and relic, between record and accusation.

Here, blood is not violence but remembrance; not sacrifice but insistence. It stains the text to remind us that every word, every line, is written on the backs of lives lived, lost, or silenced. The face is both singular and collective, a mirror of all those whose voices remain unspoken yet indelibly marked upon history.

A requiem made visible, Blood on Laos demands that we see not only with our eyes, but with the memory of our own bodies.