PHOEBE RYRKO

“The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers” BASHO

It is a hand reaching out to be kissed, it is a kiss blown into the wind.  The tender curl of a lip or a petal, discovered again in the movement of a brush laden with the unctuous mass of colour.  Seeing again and again with desiring eyes, to behold and to record that yes, indeed I was there.  I was there for I chose the ultramarine, the payne’s grey, the alizarin crimson to be laid down beside each other and bear witness to the mystery.