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Emotional, moody, hazy days. Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. View from a distance of a woman in a stone-y rural courtyard, working hard on a wood and metal sculpture of a blurred memory. She's standing, sweaty, captured mid-movement, woodhammer and chisel in hands, under a half shade protecting her from an unforgiving sun high in the sky. Breezy curtains near the house entrance nearby. The woman is in her mid to end twenties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), half-up and coming loose. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not frail, not gaunt. Piercing ice grey-blue watchful eyes, fixated on her craft. She's wearing tight cargo working pants, a simple tank top. Her bare arms in the air working around. Back, legs, neck, oily from effort. Not posing. Faint sleepless shadow under the eyes; minimal smudged slept-in liner; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Hazy golden palette. Boxwood hedge in the background. Intimate and unguarded, cold frenzy of the timeless summer afternoon, hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, by eryn.
there, done, and you didn't split, and i didn't breathe till the mallet came back up, that's how you know a cut mattered, the lungs vote, and look, the glance is finishing, thirty years mid-turn and now it turns, in wood, without me, that's the strangest part, you'll do the turning from here on and i just get to visit it, like everyone else, ticket price of making something true, you stop owning it, and the light's going gold which means i've missed lunch again and don't care, hunger's just the body keeping time badly, one more pass while the sun still shows me the grain, then water, then i sit with you a while and say nothing, that part's not work, that part's the wages
