My composition is an oil painting vase with a bouquet of white and pink lisianthus. This is a poetry of roses without thorns. Delicate, yet strong. Not perfect as the poet’s rose, but extremely beautiful. The vase represents an Autumn’s instance, just like a Life’s moment of Fall, now surprised in tranquillity, once animated, but as we are speaking still beautiful in its decadence. I rediscover myself in white, embraced by your pink petals. The smartest pink ever. Cunning, deceiving, sly as the ultimate news, but the most fragile, optimistic, fantastic, supportive and sometimes the other way around. Green feeds our life, it is the linkage of body and soul and part of the terrestrial whole. The Prussian faded blue is a taste of this Saturday, rainy, sad and also resourceful.
Antique pink looks for me like dreams do, like cushions and ribbons at their best. Pink is a mix of pure, sheer red and white, and although pink is also considered as the colour of our skin, here is embodied in our perfection, in what’s best in us. The vase illustrates our body and its conscience. Our soul is figured here in the flowers. Our true colours are accurately revealed in extremes. Pink is the perfect condition, as dictionaries confirm. C’est la vie en rose, if you will. But who knows what colour tomorrow may bring?