white pleated —
by frederiqueK

Description:

Would it be, represented there, circonvolutifs creases of my indomitable brain? I could not say it. Would it be a zoom lens on the torso of the Greek goddess Artemis (Diana, in Latin, for the Roman), goddess of the hunt which is imagined, light, running across moors, mountains and forests in the light of the moon? The only or accompanied with Nymphs, always armed with his quiver and with his arrows. The goddess huntress “armed” with the short tunic often inspired the painters and the sculptors since antiquity. So the cloth would represent a “modern” goddess. Pleated white of the tunic, in the reflexions of moon, in future. Would it be a history of undecided then voluntary, sinuous then right lines? I remember having been, child, sat on the wet sand, at the edge of the shore of the Mediterranean see. The wavelets of close of day fainted on my feet planted in the crumbs of white shellfishes. Noise dwindled, became muffled. The beach attendants packed up again mattresses and got ready in a feverish night. Few imported me … Sun soon sleeping enveloped surroundings of bright red, air got lighter itself. It was the instant when laziness became legitimate, where flowers closed again at the same time as any allowed curiosity, where light mislaid eyes, nor burnt skin, where “ to be ” became more important than to “ appear ”. The close future would be the comforting rituals imposed before the instant to close eyes. Heck, I get lost again. Then the centre of the world toppled over on this line dug by my index in the compact and ochre sand. Line, which rejected on the sides shaving of sand at the time when I drew it. Living arabesque. Intriguing, infinite line. Each time I look at this pearl-pinkish picture as a whole, my love goes by comparison towards this ancient rose dated of 1550 called « Thigh of Nymph » (synonym: Maiden’ s blush) especially spread in England. In Renaissance, rose was the flower that the artists put preferably beside the Virgin but also beside mythological divinities, delaying fashionable the fascination of the Greeks for the flower of the goddess of love: Aphrodite. Sinuous maze of deep throats where one plunge and who gulp us. Incomprehensible tangle. Where lead the creases of the picture « white pleated »? Where lead falls formed by petals? something is there to understand that I do not understand. I think that mystery resides in the beauty of rose which attains the Divine. Then, calmness pervades us.