There is a particular kind of waiting that dissolves time.
Not the soft waiting of seasons turning, or paint drying into its final truth—but the suspended, fluorescent waiting of medical tests. The kind where your body becomes both oracle and enigma. Where every sensation feels like a message you cannot quite translate.
In the language of tarot, this is the realm of the unseen card—the one that exists between the spread and the self. It is the inhale before revelation.
I imagine this space as a figure seated in a dim corridor, somewhere between the High Priestess and the Hanged Man. Not passive, but suspended. Not powerless, but held in a tension that asks for surrender. Their body is luminous and translucent, threaded with quiet constellations—organs glowing like distant stars, each one whispering a secret not yet spoken aloud.
Waiting becomes its own ritual.
We are taught to seek answers, to chase clarity like a fixed point. But the body, like the cards, does not always reveal itself on command. Sometimes it asks us to sit in the ambiguity, to trace the outlines of fear without letting it consume the image.
There is a kind of grief here—anticipatory, for futures that may never arrive. And yet, there is also an intimacy. To wait for news about your own body is to be drawn into a deeper listening. To notice the rhythm of your breath. The quiet labor of your heart. The strange, sacred fact of your aliveness.
In Phantasmagoria, I would paint this as a corridor of mirrors, each reflection slightly altered. In one, the figure is whole. In another, fragmented. In another, radiant beyond recognition. The cards are scattered at their feet, but all are face down.
Because sometimes, the truth is not in the knowing.
Sometimes, the magic—the terror, the transformation—lives in the waiting itself.
