A faded wash. A trembling edge. A brushstroke that pauses mid-air. In Last Note of a Sentence, Ghassan Zard composes with silence as much as with pigment. These paintings don’t declare themselves. They hover, suspended between gesture and disappearance, between sound and its echo.
The series is steeped in the slow unravelling of form. Light, once directional, now lingers as residue. Shapes begin to emerge, only to dissolve. It is not harmony that drives these works, but their undoing; the broken chord, the breath just after the music stops.

Zard draws from the fragmented elegance of Mahler’s Rückert-Lieder, where melody deconstructs into pure sensation. His canvases feel equally lyrical, haunted by rhythm and structure. There is also the quiet influence of Kawabata, particularly the unsettling poise of The House of the Sleeping Beauties, where long, winding sentences end not with closure, but with a fall. Zard paints in that same register: restrained, elliptical, incomplete. Like Kawabata’s Eguchi, who searches not for answers but for proximity to stillness, these works linger like a sentence abandoned mid-thought, a vibration just after the light has gone.