every rose dripped with intoxicating fragrance, like melting chocolate, the petals were baby skin soft, i wanted to become their essence, their color, their grace. some were crushed, older with crisp edges but the fresher roses didn't fight for attention. there was magic in their essence, the kind of essence you see on a wrinkled woman's face who wears red lipstick and swings her hips with confidence only time can give.
i thought of ways to paint them when the house was quiet from its day, with oils on linen, i'd mix
abstract brush strokes combined with smooth gentle ones, the kind great masters did. the knife and brush
working in unison, how can an artist imitate their smell while offering the viewer a sense of impending death?
isn't it the fleeting moment, the memory that keeps beauty on its pedestal? it will be a long night, the roses know my name...