“A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.” Paul Cezanne
It’s not a gloomy artwork, but rather a realism portrait dangling from the crescent’s tip. It’s abstract, the distortions accentuate the focal point which is of a flower withering. The texture’s are harsh, the painter was in a rage but was able to smooth the delicacies of the petals with a palette knife. A knife given to him by his mother, who lovingly embroidered chestnuts and dandelions onto his chest. The winds whirled , swirls like Van Gogh. I could feel the scream flinging from the painting, it stung in the hearts of the emotionally distraught. The pigmentation dried , the dust turned to chalk and the theme of loss was in the atmosphere. What started out as a picture in the sky turned into a fresco on the walls. The foreground held dying petals while the background held youthful buds. The painting felt both refreshing and unnerving , both serene and disheartening. There were figures in lime green, basking in the highlights. They turned their cubic bodies, like starch figures in horror movies. They weren’t womanly, so Picasso would smile with snake teeth. The figure’s were out of proportion, their heads were bigger than their bodies. It was caricature, with less animated smiles. They weren’t outshining the rose, because it’s nectar seeped through the thick layers. Twisting their heads unnaturally, scorching pupils elongated at the viewer. Those things were confident enough to look you in the eye, to stand threateningly like a statue done by Rodin. The rose was fading into the colors, blending. The grass was greener in the background where the buds smiled wildflowers . How much more could the anther’s hold onto their thin bodies, while insects glide away merrily. Poor rose, loosing itself to the greenery, suffocating in the scenery of colors.
“Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye.. it also includes the inner pictures of the soul.” Edvard Munch
