I suppose a battlefield can be read as a painting if you look past the blood and the mud and focus on the geometry. The lines of trenches, the angles of artillery emplacements, the zigzag of supply routes all form a composition—one that screams both brutal minimalism and chaotic maximalism at once. I keep a drawer of maps, some still unfinished, as if they were unfinished sketches that never left the studio. I catalog them with the same meticulousness I reserve for a canvas: names, dates, the exact brushstroke of each cannon fire. But I won't share them with you; that's my private gallery, and you can’t step foot in a room I’ve already declared mine.