An excerpt from Chapter One of The Hands Series
a haunting tale of creativity and personal discovery
set in modern day france
An excerpt from Chapter One of The Hands Series
a haunting tale of creativity and personal discovery
set in modern day france
The artist’s name was Rose.
Rose like the colour, pink, when spoken in my native French. Rose like the flower, too, which grew in my grandmother’s garden as a girl. And I will never forget the wild-roaming elegance conjured by that row of roses. Flowers all tricked up with a beauty so beguiling as to mask their thorny nature.
…
The artist’s name was Rose.
Rose like the colour, pink, when spoken in my native French. Rose like the flower, too, which grew in my grandmother’s garden as a girl. And I will never forget the wild-roaming elegance conjured by that row of roses. Flowers all tricked up with a beauty so beguiling as to mask their thorny nature.
…
I was shocked to see the mixed media work before me. Shocked by its oversized proportions and the darkness of the moon it conveyed. The moon that was dark not in colour, but in feeling. For there was, in fact, a pearlescent quality to this lune. And I felt an uneasy sense, deep down in my belly, that it might just suck me into its eerie glow.
It was a painting, but also not that simple. Mixed in with the acrylic, there seemed to be all manner of materials: crushed up seashells and ground coffee beans, rouge and something else of a darker shade red.
…
I was shocked to see the mixed media work before me. Shocked by its oversized proportions and the darkness of the moon it conveyed. The moon that was dark not in colour, but in feeling. For there was, in fact, a pearlescent quality to this lune. And I felt an uneasy sense, deep down in my belly, that it might just suck me into its eerie glow.
It was a painting, but also not that simple. Mixed in with the acrylic, there seemed to be all manner of materials: crushed up seashells and ground coffee beans, rouge and something else of a darker shade red.
…
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