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In the world of Fragile Vision, every painting begins not with colour, but with a breath, a quiet fragment of poetry. From that breath, pigment drifts outward, carrying emotions too delicate for speech. Full brilliantly coloured red, green, blue, brown. Artist Jean-Baptiste Monge style. The pale ultra-pale hyper-pale half body portrait, cute Kyoto girl, traditional short mini skirt, in dynamic pose, a print of mathematical equations, astrological signs, glossy spheres of symbols, against a backdrop of drippy fungi mycelium slime mold, splash paint over robes, hieroglyphics symbols, alien calligraphy with Gestural Flourishes, ripples, Skips, Feathering, bleeding from indian ink, sketches of graph & waves, impasto oil painting, dark, abstract, ominous, style of Dave McKean and Stephen Gammell.
Whispered Secrets of a Witching Age
In twilight’s hush where old winds stray,
And night leans close to steal the day,
The air grows thick with ancient lore—
Soft murmurs from a time before.
The witching age, in shadow spun,
Was born of moon and midnight sun;
Its secrets drift on silver thread,
From whispering woods to the newly dead.
Each whispered truth a guarded spell,
A pact where light and darkness dwell;
A name half-shaped, a vow half-kept,
A promise sworn while others slept.
They tell of covens veiled in mist,
Of fate undone by lover’s tryst;
Of charms that bend the mortal path,
And curses forged in quiet wrath.
Yet not all secrets lead to fear—
Some gently guide the ones who hear;
A healing rite, a hidden sign,
A warning carved in fern and vine.
And though the age has long grown old,
Its breath still stirs when nights turn cold;
For magic lives where whispers wage
The subtle war of time and age.
So listen well, with steady heart,
To murmured tales the dark imparts;
For only those who truly gauge
Can read the secrets
Of a witching age.
