The wind shakes the branches of a tree. The branches bend, return, bend again. I imagine tracing their movement in the sky, never the same, broken down, yielding to the breath. And everything inevitably becomes a metaphor for life, us like the branches while invisible events shake us like gusts of wind. And we remain alive in the incessant blowing of the wind.
Oil
£501.83
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The wind shakes the branches of a tree. The branches bend, return, bend again. I imagine tracing their movement in the sky, never the same, broken down, yielding to the breath. And everything inevitably becomes a metaphor for life, us like the branches while invisible events shake us like gusts of wind. And we remain alive in the incessant blowing of the wind.
Oil
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