I like to think that Josephina is made of all the pink hues in the early morning sky. Her name could have been Aurora or Dawn, I wondered as I opened my curtains, but then she wouldn’t bear the name of she who cared for me. And every morning I bask in her tender light – it’s her only way now to wish me luck for the day to come.
(original from 28/05/2015)
His mum taught him how to care for birds so they would happily land in the palm of his hand, without being afraid of his fingers crushing them. But never did she warn him about the dangers of trusting the filthy hands of adults. And they tend to have big hands, big hands that are perfect for squeezing every last drop out of the bird’s frail body. (照美)
It was dawn.
Short, thick yellow brush strokes against a faded blue background. Bold shadows hinting at the presence of a person in the foreground. And also a red circle, full like someone’s mouth wide open, trying to swallow the sun and its light to keep it for themselves. The fisherman probably feels deceived knowing that he will not feel the warmth on his bare arms, yet he pursues his quest so he will not come home empty handed.
It was dawn on a canvas.
The blond boy was quick to notice that the darker tones seemed stronger, and more vivid than anything he had ever painted – because they were not a result of using black paint. No, it was the result of using complementary colours, just squeezed out of the tube and applied as such on the canvas that made this fisherman in the foreground stand out so much against the ocean. He made a mental note to discard his black paint tubes; anything that could help him capture the essence, the “impression” of things just like those French painters he had learned about at university. It was fascinating to think that, when you see it up close, the nuances of this artwork are concealed behind the unblended paint strokes ; it is like going back to the unworried days, when clouds were just white cotton balls and when it was still acceptable for him to make a mess in the living room when painting with his fingers.
He took out a notebook from his purse, the expensive kind with a black leather cover, and his favourite calligraphy pen. He opened it to jot down the title of this artwork and its author, Monet.
(via Daily Prompt: Impression)
The first thing he did when he woke up, was longing for the brief moment when he actually felt powerful. But what good does it make to desperately hold on to something you needed to be rescued from? he wondered, as he reached for another glass down from his bed. Alcohol and cigarettes don’t go well together they said, whatever – he still lit up one. It is not like him and the things inside his head went well together either, yet they were conjoined to the bone. (風丸)