0
创作者 m0dest
创作者 m0dest
A canvas laid flat, with shapes in dispute, A violet splotch, the scene's playful brute. With rectangles rigid, in black-tie attire, The purple blob grins, an impish liar.
Yellow stands firm, a king with no crown, Beside the red's glow, a celestial gown. But mischief, it blooms, in a violet hue, A giggle in paint, a jester's debut.
The squares hold their breath, the lines stand in queue, While violet dances, as if on cue. The strokes tell a tale, in the old man's jest, Of order and chaos, a visual test.
"Here's life," old man might quip, with a knowing smile, "In boxes and blobs, and a violet's guile. A world left behind, with its colors and shapes, A mischief-maker, from which no one escapes."
So sing, oh sing, of the violet's play, In a universe strict, where straight lines sway. For in the old man's verse, as in art's bold riff, There's wisdom in laughter, and truth in a tiff.
"Left Behind," a series that seems to have tumbled out of the back pocket of the universe while it was busy doing something else, is a cavalcade of canvases that are cluttered with the debris of geometric introspection. Picture this: shapes and shadows that got stood up by their own dimensions, waiting in a two-dimensional limbo, where depth is as elusive as a politician's promise.
This series, it's like a love letter to the leftovers, a tip of the hat to what remains when everything else has moved on to bigger and better things—or at least to things with more than two dimensions. It's art that doesn't just hang on the wall; it leans against it, casually smoking a cigarette, waiting for someone to ask, "What's your story?"
keyboard_arrow_down
事件
价格
自
至
日期
violet_mischief
拥有者
NFTLaurent
0
visibility
47 查看- 价格美元价格数量到期自
- 价格美元价格数量地板价差异到期自
创作者 m0dest
创作者 m0dest
A canvas laid flat, with shapes in dispute, A violet splotch, the scene's playful brute. With rectangles rigid, in black-tie attire, The purple blob grins, an impish liar.
Yellow stands firm, a king with no crown, Beside the red's glow, a celestial gown. But mischief, it blooms, in a violet hue, A giggle in paint, a jester's debut.
The squares hold their breath, the lines stand in queue, While violet dances, as if on cue. The strokes tell a tale, in the old man's jest, Of order and chaos, a visual test.
"Here's life," old man might quip, with a knowing smile, "In boxes and blobs, and a violet's guile. A world left behind, with its colors and shapes, A mischief-maker, from which no one escapes."
So sing, oh sing, of the violet's play, In a universe strict, where straight lines sway. For in the old man's verse, as in art's bold riff, There's wisdom in laughter, and truth in a tiff.
"Left Behind," a series that seems to have tumbled out of the back pocket of the universe while it was busy doing something else, is a cavalcade of canvases that are cluttered with the debris of geometric introspection. Picture this: shapes and shadows that got stood up by their own dimensions, waiting in a two-dimensional limbo, where depth is as elusive as a politician's promise.
This series, it's like a love letter to the leftovers, a tip of the hat to what remains when everything else has moved on to bigger and better things—or at least to things with more than two dimensions. It's art that doesn't just hang on the wall; it leans against it, casually smoking a cigarette, waiting for someone to ask, "What's your story?"
keyboard_arrow_down
事件
价格
自
至
日期
