“The are a lot of sides in art, and it goes without saying that we need them clean and colourful. But what is nore impornant - external losk that would be beat with eve more elegant painting, or inner, spiritual content of the things that will always be valuable? The form is a mean for realization of the idea, but not its main aim.“ - Nikolay Dubovskoy
hey guys! This is the first time I am doing
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whole lot better :)
Interior with a Lady seated on a Birchtree sofa reading a book (1903). Vilhelm Hammershøi (Danish, 1864-1916).
A woman in a black dress reads a book while sitting in a somewhat uncomfortable position on the sofa. With the exception of the sofa and a small painting, the floor and wall are a single field of the same color with no additional furnishings or ornamentation.
As the wood creaks under my bare toes, and my skin drags in fright, polishing the wooden surface, I realize the unexpected: the well kept wood, polished by white lace fingers and royal wax feet is filled with maggots.
They eat at the birch flesh that I now disgustingly tingle with the tips of my toes; it wails in my ear, sensitive to my untrammeled movements – I torment it in the morning light of the sole, unreachable window.
I walk, run, fret to the window, but I never quite reach it. When I almost touch it with the tips of my trembling fingers, and try to fall exhausted at it’s sill, I find even more stairs between me and it.
The more I try and walk to freedom, the more the maggots turmoil – I can feel them sliding between the nooks and knots and fibers of everything.
Maggots nip at my flesh while I make a run for escape. But I never reach the window; I am cursed.