Gallery — E Hen

The last time I visited, I brought no blood. I brought a single, unfinished sentence I’d been carrying for years: “I wanted to tell you—”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“No one has ever seen the actual E. Hen,” whispered a man in a coat covered in paint splatters. He had no eyes—just two small, framed landscapes where his pupils should be. “Some say E. Hen is a collector who died a century ago. Others say it’s a condition. A kind of artistic melancholia where you only create what’s missing.” e hen gallery

The gallery accepted it. And in return, it let me hang my own work: a mirror with no reflection, labeled simply: The last time I visited, I brought no blood

“You’re bleeding,” said a voice. Not from anywhere. From everywhere. Hen,” whispered a man in a coat covered in paint splatters