Closer than any other pull in the series. The slab fills the frame and pushes past it — both lobes cropped at the edges, the crack between them wide and open, the paper barely containing what the wood had to say. Up this close, the two halves read as genuinely different from each other: the left lobe rough and striated, its texture broken and weathered; the right ordered, the rings arcing in clean, legible succession. Same tree. Same slab. The crack between them holds the distance. This is the print that rewards time — the longer you look, the more the two sides refuse to agree with each other.
