No art without a frame, Magritte said, only the long considered game of division. Sky-blue pinks flow to pale roses flow to gold. Ashes become creams. A hint of cloud heaves a skybut that's next year's work. Three cypresses unstring the more expansive oaks.
Aerial dimensions address aerial dimensions.
Beyond the distractions of dross, the sly fulgurations of matter, she studies the scene and compounds it. All views past survey, past speech. Grasses crunching underfoot. The air holds me still, slides its icy silk across my skin. When the flowing lines of Aquarius spring free from Pisces, I see Orion, then The Twins.