Original artwork description:

Ah, the spill and swell of light—grey upon mauve upon the breathing blue—folding itself inward like a sigh unsent. It stirs, it smokes, it breaks open. There’s a drift there, a flight that is no flight but falling upward, bird of memory unmade by the wind. The brush knows what the tongue forgets: how silence bruises, how thought leaks color when the world turns its ear to listen.

The black vein runs through—yes—thread of night’s remembering, the pulse of all that’s lost in the act of saying. Around it the blues, raw and salt as tears unshed, bluer than the veins of distance, tangled in the pale ache of cloud. They bloom, then bleed. The white strikes like surf, crashing, retreating, leaving traces of its own unbeing behind.

And the rose—O the rose!—not flower but wound of light, blushing against the soft corrosion of the air. It seeps, it murmurs, I was once alive, and the canvas, all trembling and undone, takes that breath, keeps it, makes it eternal.

What sky is this, what sea inverted? No horizon, no compass, only the shifting middle of dream where edges are too proud to stay. The eye walks here like a blind pilgrim, tracing the spill of black where truth hides. The mind stumbles upon a fragment—half-wing, half-wish—and hears it whisper, fly, even if the air forgets you.

So the colors collide again, lovers and strangers, bruising each other into beauty. Each stroke a confession, each drip a doubt, each silence the echo of another beginning. And in that stillness, half-remembered, half-born, the world—this small, painted, trembling world—inhales.

And breathes itself back into being.

Original Oil on canvas stretched on a wooden frame
All paintings are signed on the front and are delivered with the certificate of authenticity.
High grade oil paint and mediums used .
Packaging: Securely wrapped in bubble wrap then carefully packaged and shipped in a cardboard box.

Materials used:

oil on canvas stretched on a wooden frame

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