Andrew Atwood’s drawing hangs on the far north wall of the gallery. On-axis with the entrance of the space, it occupies nearly 6 feet horizontally and 2 feet vertically of prime real estate. The drawing’s alignment with the entry allows for a series of visual illusions to unfold before the viewer's eyes. Standing at the gallery door, one might identify an abstract, blurry grey blob sitting on a white rectangle. However, as the viewer moves closer to the drawing, about half way between the north wall and south entry door, something curious happens. The homogeneous, white-ish, gray-ish figures come into focus as soft rendered mountains and deep sinking valleys. This sudden reading of illusionistic depth creates an allure, drawing the viewer nearer, into further intimacy. However, when the viewer moves in to explore this new scene, the delicate hills dissolve back into abstract shapes, like a mirage in the desert. Up close, one realizes the dabbled trails of tiny footsteps in the snow are in fact tiny indentations in the surface of the panel, delicately flirting with thick, raised layers of what seems to be paint. When these edges become visible, the drawing begins to read as a collection of individual flat shapes, rather than a gradient of rolling hills. One may also notice the trails of indented punctures become raised bumps as they venture across the raised edges. This detail further reinforces the flatness of the shapes by using a subtle transformation to bring attention to their borders. After exploring the abstract, simply step back a few feet to transport back into the landscape scene. This flipping from an illusionistic reading of depth to a physical reading of depth allows the drawing to communicate with its audience through physical space - begging them to continue questioning its content, as if it were beautifully displaying its desire to be kept alive.