Autumn Tale

An incandescent breath sweeps across the canvas, like foliage in metamorphosis. Deep reds, blazing golds, and radiant turquoises surge in luminous sprays, as though the season itself were writing its tales at the knife’s edge. Autumn here is not melancholy, but a flamboyant narrative, where each leaf becomes a word, each vein a sentence, each fall a punctuation mark. The vertical strokes recall trunks or stems rising upward, sustaining this inner fire, this blaze of life that precedes the silence of winter. Everything here seems to whisper a forgotten legend: of trees that once sang on the horizon, of winds bearing memory, of colors guarding stories. This fable has neither beginning nor end: it is cycle, renewal, promise. In its brilliance, autumn becomes myth—and painting, an open book for those who know how to read in light.