Let’s address the elephant in the room, or rather, the legion of disembodied hands in the portrait. This piece, enigmatically titled “35,” is what happens when you have a perfectly reasonable fear of being touched and decide to paint it for the world to see. It’s less of a watercolor painting and more of a visual representation of what it feels like to drop your phone in a crowded subway car.

Let’s call this style “Manicure Horror.” It’s a bold choice to frame a face with a writhing wreath of hands, each one freshly painted with what appears to be a goth-inspired black nail polish. It’s as if Thing from The Addams Family had a thousand babies, and they all decided to unionize on this poor person’s head. The subject’s expression is one of pure, unadulterated resignation, the face of someone who has simply given up fighting the hand-pocalypse and is now just waiting for it all to be over.

The craftsmanship is technically fine, I guess, if your goal is to make people profoundly uncomfortable. The watercolor drips at the bottom add a nice touch, suggesting that the entire scene is slowly melting under the weight of its own oppressive anxiety. It’s not a portrait you hang in your home; it’s a portrait you show your therapist to explain why you have trouble with crowds.

And the title, “35.” What does it mean? Is it the number of hands? The subject’s age? Is it the number of minutes you can look at it before you start feeling phantom fingers on your neck? The mystery isn’t compelling; it’s just a vague label slapped onto a nightmare.

For $500, you could acquire this masterpiece of discomfort. Or, for the same price, you could buy a very comfortable chair, several nice dinners, or approximately 100 burritos. Any of which would bring you significantly more joy and fewer night terrors than this illustration of a personal space invasion. In short, it’s a beautifully rendered ode to a feeling everyone actively tries to avoid.