Tribute to Virginia Woolf, painted in thick oil strokes, an inner dialogue behind eyes.
A young woman sits at the edge of her own garden, half-turned toward us, half toward something we can’t see. Rouge blooms on her cheek like the flowers beside her — the two nearly interchangeable, skin and petal painted in the same confident red. Behind her, a loose architecture of foliage and branch holds the canvas together while color runs free: acid yellow, teal, a peach sky pressing close overhead.
There’s a quiet defiance in how little the background asks to be resolved — it doesn’t compete with her face, only keeps her company. This is a painting about proximity/inner thought
