Why is it that I am attracted almost by the force of an impulse towards greenery, plants, little shrubs, and tall trees? Paintings of thick forests, atmosphere that of misty evening with tinge of pale yellow color on the back ground interest me. The obscurity of paintings, the hidden qualities that reveal themselves occasionally, as if the painter is alive painting in another world while the hideous nuances fall apart one after another in this world.
In the shadows of an evening sun, a hut that can be seen only through the two inseparable yet dissimilar brush strokes, one over the other; the antelope with its horns transmogrifying into dry branches of a dead oak tree, against the territorial pale brown background; the yellowish twigs on the forest floor that suffer at the weight of rain drops; the green leaves on the branches of trees that hold rain water in them, curved as cups, they hold water until water itself gains weight with one last dab of the fine brush painter holds at this moment.
So mesmerizing the beauty, so fascinating the allure and so conquering the atmosphere that the painter is never satisfied! He pauses until the last water drop dripping from the conical leaf of a heavily leaf clad tree is dry, and he now proceeds to dab the contours with a cotton cloth dipped in translucent liquid, or perhaps a liquid that glows. He would enquire with the antelope if the mist is obscuring it enough, for the creature is shy; he enquires with the bearded hag in the thatched roof hut if the roof is inclined enough to obfuscate it, he would persevere that perhaps the ends are rustic and visible. He aims to dip the cloth once again in the velvety liquid and dabs with it against the edges of the hut, steps away from the painting, holds his breath , closes hi eyes, and now stares at the whole first, and the edge next. The edge to his surprise is dissolved into the dark interiors of the background, the mist stole the roof and the nearby heavy trunks of tall trees have begun eating into the roof’s corridors. Now, the painter is pleased.
It’s dark, it’s misty, obscure, hideous, but the painter prepares himself for one last ordeal. He dips his thin, long brush and with a single stroke, draws a delicate curve, neatly posited away from the hut, for he wishes to leave the hut hidden; closer to the antelope’s feet as it leans into the drawn curve, for the painter now wishes to hide the antelope by pushing it into the background where it is all dark and misty. The new curve lay there, inviting the painter and he draws more curves beneath the first one, on and on he does and finally he draws a giant curve across the board and finishes the body by a curve that now houses a woman. The dry twigs absorb a part of her color and turn paler, she turns pale too, for the painter wishes to leave her outside in the first dimension for an observant, still a paler version of the woman, for the painter is insecure of sharing with observers.
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