Metlan's "After the Song" shimmers with a sensual, almost theatrical energy. The faceless figure, back arched in a moment of poised reverie, is a study in contradictions. Her exposed skin is rendered in delicate washes, contrasting sharply with the impasto fury of her fiery orange gown. The violin, clutched almost as an afterthought, hints at a performance concluded or a melody yet to be born. Is it a lament? A triumph? Metlan leaves us suspended in the echoes of an unheard symphony, a visual aria of longing and vibrant color.