The flowers bloom whether anyone is watching.
Magenta. Red. Pink. They cascade from the left into a sky that is peach and gold and unembarrassed by its own color. The sky does not earn this color. It simply gives it. The flowers do not earn the sky. They simply rise into it.
This painting is small on purpose. Three and a half inches by six. You have to come close. You have to look at the way the magenta holds against the gold. You have to see that the flowers are not asking permission to take up this much beauty in this small a space.
This is what joy looks like before it apologizes. What presence sounds like before it explains itself. The flowers are not reaching for anything. They are already there.
Anyway.
The flowers bloom whether anyone is watching.
Magenta. Red. Pink. They cascade from the left into a sky that is peach and gold and unembarrassed by its own color. The sky does not earn this color. It simply gives it. The flowers do not earn the sky. They simply rise into it.
This painting is small on purpose. Three and a half inches by six. You have to come close. You have to look at the way the magenta holds against the gold. You have to see that the flowers are not asking permission to take up this much beauty in this small a space.
This is what joy looks like before it apologizes. What presence sounds like before it explains itself. The flowers are not reaching for anything. They are already there.
Anyway.
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